Benny of New Vegas
by F4nF1c888555
Summary: Benny's time in the Mojave didn't start during his infamous run-in with a courier carrying the Platinum Chip: a Fallout New Vegas prequel story of plotting, deception, and unchecked ambition. [My take on one of the most reviled characters in the Fallout series]
1. Chapter 1

Red dust swirled around the pair of brahmin as their hooves kicked up Mojave sand, obscuring the view of the two-headed beasts. Although they were not much more than a blip from behind a spiny piece of brush on a nearby hill, Swank could make out four figures ambling along with the beasts through the crosshairs of his hunting rifle.

"Who do you think they are?" Swank whispered to Benny, lying prone looking through a pair of dark gray binoculars.

"Could be more of those people from out west. The one on the left has a shiny ass pistol," he replied giddily, peeling away from the binoculars, "Definitely some people about to have a bad day. You think we can take these cats right here, right now?"

Swank gave him a pleading look, "Bingo will have our asses. We gotta get the OK, Benny."

"Fine," Benny grumbled.

The pair scrambled backwards slowly, keeping their bellies on the ground until the incline blocked the line of sight between them and the brahmin. Walking in a half crouch, clad with gecko-skin, the pair slipped into the shadow of the hill. They moved silently across the terrain, their bare feet immune to the crunch of gravel in a way only possible through years of practice.

The pair came to a deep ravine nearly hidden from view but for a thin crevice. They slipped inside, having to turn sideways to get through the opening. As they continued on, the ravine widened, and the air filled with the smell of charred giant ant meat. Dozens of bighorner-hide tents had been erected in the widest part of the ravine, flanked on both sides by steep cliffs. A large red-brown tent, covered in a great tapestry, dominated the camp. Glancing upwards, Benny could see patrols pacing along the top of the cliffs. He quickly dodged out of the way as a cadre of children raced past him, screaming and laughing.

As they neared the large tent, Swank turned to Benny, "You know, we could just leave those guys out there. We don't _have_ to do this."

Benny ran his hand through his dark brown hair, the plump features of his face narrowing into a scowl, "Do you think I'm scared of him, baby?"

"No Benny, I just –"

"Look, baby, I'm not having fucking grilled mutant ant for dinner again. This is our chance to get some of the good shit from out west, and ain't Bingo or anyone else gonna get in the way of that," Benny spat out in his shrill voice.

Swank sighed. His handsome face looked haggard. His sharp jawline drooped with exhaustion, and his dark shaggy hair hung over his face, covering most of his large forehead, stopping just before his brown eyes. "Look man, I'm just trying to look out for you," he said softly, sympathy in his eyes.

"You can look out for me by staying out of my way," Benny snarled as he walked away, making for the center of the camp.

Benny walked along the edge of the tent, running his fingers over the tapestry. The artwork was little more than a collage of violence, portraying the Boot Riders' exploits in sickening detail. Images of lesser tribes of the Mojave were shown being skewered by throwing spears. Crudely drawn Riders charged at caravanners with knives and rebar clubs. The most recent addition to the tapestry, closest to the tent entrance, displayed Bingo, the Boot Riders' chief. In his right hand, he held a baseball club; in his left, the head of a deathclaw. Benny sneered.

The tapestry wasn't the problem. Benny didn't mind a good piece of art. The problem was what it stood for. The Boot Riders were all machismo, no style. Caesar's Legion, down further south, they had style. Sure, they were bloodthirsty weirdos, but everyone knew not to mess with those cats. You couldn't help but recognize a horde of crazies wearing Legion armor. Roman troops in the middle of the Mojave, now that made an impression. The Boot Riders, on the other hand, were tough as hell, but without any flair. To anyone outside the tribe, they were just another band of raiders, looking to pillage and score some quick Jet.

Ducking his head under the entranceway, Benny walked into the tent. The inside was cool and dark, lit by a dim lantern on a table near the back. From floor to ceiling, the tent was lined with hides of various animals, from coyotes to yao guai – trophies from the hunt. Behind the table, Bingo stood, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his chin resting on his knuckles, peering down at a sprawling piece of paper. He was a bear of a man. It would be easy to mistake him for a supermutant if you saw him lumbering around at night. He dwarfed Benny's spindly frame. His head was ensconced in a tangled knot of thick, blonde hair that hung down well past his shoulders. He was flanked on either side by two of his goons, both holding heavily battered submachine guns in various states of disrepair.

"Chief, you got a visitor," one of the goons said from beneath a massive mustache.

Bingo looked up and sighed, "Ah, Benny, back to camp so soon? I hope you weren't shirking on scouting duty."

Benny ignored him, walking slowly toward the table. He wasn't going to get under his skin that easily. "Look, Chief," Benny started, "Swank and I saw a caravan heading east; two brahmin loaded with packs, four people. They're armed, but they're on the main road surrounded by hills. It would be an easy ambush, you dig?"

Bingo's eyes gleamed. "A HUNT!" he bellowed, followed by a thundering laugh.

"About that," Benny said, as Bingo pulled a clear bottle of dark liquid out of a small, heavily scratched, wooden cabinet next to the table, "I'm thinking maybe I could lead this one. Maybe run a different game plan."

"Benny, we're not going through this again," Bingo replied, taking a massive swig of the dark liquid. Putting it down, his teary eyes suggested whiskey.

"Bingo, look. If we charge in headfirst, we'll get them, sure, but think about it. These cats are heading east; that means they probably came from out west," Benny quickly rattled out, "We grab a couple of hostages, maybe we get lucky, and it's somebody bigtime. Then we're negotiating with a civilization in the west with a fucking government. Think of all the shit they have. We could get way more than a few packs of pork n' beans. And then people hear that the Boot Riders stood them down, and we get more people wanting to join up. We could be big league."

"Are you finished yet?" Bingo asked, taking another swig.

"Just listen. Swank can spot for me, and I'll sneak in behind them, get the drop on 'em. We pull this maneuver a couple of times, word gets around. The Boot Riders aren't just your average raiders; they're a gang of gentleman outlaws. That's an idea, people are willing to join an idea. We don't have to keep surviving, we can be _powerful_ ," Benny pleaded.

"You're a coward, Benny," Bingo said flatly.

"Chief –" Benny started.

"No, Benny. Boot Riders don't _sneak in_ anywhere. If you don't like it, you can get the fuck out, or try your odds with Great fucking Khans" Bingo snarled, referring to another nomadic tribe known for its brutal guerilla tactics, but not exactly friendly to outsiders and not seen at all in recent months. He turned to the mustached goon, smiling with his set of vicious yellow teeth, "Tommy, tell the Riders to prepare for a hunt."

Benny skulked out of the tent before Bingo had a chance to continue the verbal lashing or – worse yet – turn it into a physical one. Tommy dashed out behind him, running between tents, barking orders left and right to form up for a raid. Benny made his way to his own tent, slipping inside. It was simple. Just a brahmin-hide bedroll, a small duffel bag, and his prized possession hanging from a piece of yarn near the back of his tent: a porcelain-framed mirror. As far as Benny knew, he had the only one in the whole camp. Turns out people who wore gecko skins didn't care so much about aesthetics.

He reached into his duffle bag, pulling out a small sphere-shaped bottle with a snug lid. He twisted the lid off and dabbed his hand at the contents. His ran his fingers, now covered in a translucent goo, through his hair, slicking it back. His slicked back hair rested atop what some might call a baby face with small eyes and a rounded chin. The Boot Riders, not big on vanity, absolutely skewered him for the look. He didn't give a shit. He was going to be bigshot one day, so he might as well look the part now.

When Benny emerged from his tent, he was Swank on the fringes of the small crowd forming – the beginnings of a Boot Rider raiding party. Swank was staring off idly as Bingo was working the crowd into a frenzy. He turned, his eyes making contact with Benny's. He quickly turned away, looking back at Bingo, who was barking his nonsense about the glory of the hunt to the amped up Riders, most of which had some kind of hard liquor in hand.

Benny sauntered up to Swank. "Hey man," Benny began, while Swank still pretended to pay attention to Bingo's war speech, "I fucked up. I shouldn't have done you like that. We're partners." Swank just kept looking on, unphased. "You were right," Benny grumbled.

Swank, finally perking up, grinned, "Yeah, I was, wasn't I?"

"Oh shut up," Benny growled, punching him in the shoulder with a smile on his face.

Swank nodded toward Bingo, who was now practically frothing at the mouth, screaming that it was the time to embark on a hunt for glory. "Anything new?"

Benny frowned. "No, still thinks anything other than a full frontal assault is just being a punk ass. I just don't know how much more of this I can take, baby," Benny said, winding up for a rant Swank knew too well, "Some cats are cool with pissing their existence away pretending like they're a big fucking deal, taking potshots at caravans just to score a couple bags of potato chips. Some cats are cool with being second fiddle. I ain't either of those, you dig?"

Swank nodded. Benny had a short fuse, and he knew better than to push back when he was this worked up.

"NOW WE RIDE!" Bingo roared, downing the last of his whiskey. The Boot Riders went ballistic, screaming and throwing their fists in the air.

"Just promise me you won't do anything dumb," Swank cautioned, as Benny continued scowling.

"Let's get this over with," Benny said curtly.


	2. Chapter 2

"Boot Riders ride for glory! Boot riders ride for the hunt!" Bingo bellowed over the thunderous chorus of hundreds of hooves smashing into the ground.

Benny rolled his eyes from beneath his goggles, but everyone else was eating this shit up. Next to him, a Rider – unidentifiable beneath dirty goggles and a green bandana fastened over his mouth – screeched and fired a pistol round into the air. His steed, a relatively small bighorner with a severely dented pair of horns, bleated in surprise. All around Benny, Boot Riders urged their bighorners into faster gallops. Benny could hear more gunshots and flashes of bright light through the thick dust.

Poor tactical planning at its finest. After getting everyone liquored up, Bingo ordered a charge right in the open, surrounded by hills. Now, the raiding party was in the exact same perfect ambush position as the caravan. Any element of surprise was gone, and the caravanners would no doubt be able to fire a few shots into the stampede of cavalry before getting run down.

Benny laid his head low down onto the thick wooly neck of his bighorner, Alice. "It's gonna be OK," he whispered into her ear soothingly. She, like most other animals, didn't appreciate the sound of gunshots. Benny had been riding Alice since he joined up with the Boot Riders, and she was a good one, as far as bighorners went.

Most people in the Mojave held a fairly poor opinion of the creatures, with the general consensus that they wouldn't work as pack animals, let alone as steeds, ultimately making them good for meat and not much else. But back when the Boot Riders were just the Boots – Bingo's father's idea, apparently the knack for stupidity ran in the genes – before they were driven out of Arizona by Caesar and his boys, they raided a tribe with a flock of bighorners specially bred for riding. After the general pillaging, Bingo, having a rare moment of clarity put two and two together, and took the herd, using them as pack animals and war mounts. With the proper motivation, they were great for both: strong enough to carry endless amounts of loot and tough as nails. He'd seen bighorners in the wild face down radscorpions the size of Corvegas.

In the dim evening light, surrounded by a cloud of newly unearthed dust, Benny couldn't make out much on the road ahead. He pulled his binoculars out of one of Alice's packs and pressed them hard against his face, trying to prevent them from jostling too much as the beast galloped. He could see silhouettes moving up ahead, pacing in between what looked like tents. Must have already set up camp.

"Boss they're up there!" Benny yelled, his voice drowned out by the stomping, screaming, and gunshots. Nobody could hear a thing. _Idiots_ , Benny thought.

As the bighorners quickly closed in on the camp, it became apparent that the caravanners had predictably noticed the dozens of drunken raiders bearing down on them, screaming at the top of their lungs and firing bullets into the air. Now visible without binoculars, Benny could see figures frantically running in and out of the tents. Mere hundreds of feet away now, he saw a woman with a cowboy hat walk slowly into the open and kneel down on one knee. Now, less than a hundred feet away, he could see that she was holding something: a rifle! And they were out in the open with no cover.

Benny closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, waiting for the inevitable cough of an assault rifle to tear him from Alice. But the sound never came.

 _Thwump._

Light.

Sound.

An explosion sent Benny flying through the air. He tried to put his hands out to brace for the fall, but he couldn't tell where the ground was.

Ground.

He heard a sickening crunch as his back was painfully reunited with the Mojave desert. Groaning loudly, Benny sat up, his head spinning. He immediately keeled over, and quickly lost a fight to keep yellow bile from spilling from his mouth.

Smoke.

Fire.

Wiping his face with his sleeve and looking up, the scene around him was chaotic. In a haze of dust and smoke, he could make out mutilated bigorners and their riders scattered across the ground. Next to him, Alice wasn't moving, and it didn't look like she was going to anytime soon, if ever. Benny quickly ran his hands over his body and though his hair. By some miracle, he hadn't become the unwilling host of any shrapnel. Toward the camp, the surviving raiders were exacting vengeance with knives, spears, and an occasional gunshot.

"What the fuck was that?" a familiar voice cried out from behind him.

Swiveling around, nearly vomiting again, Benny saw Swank awkwardly limping toward him with a rapidly expanding dark spot on the knee of his gecko skin pants.

Benny pushed himself off the ground, his back in agonizing pain. "Some kind of explosive, I guess."

"Help me grab Rodney," Swank murmured, clearly still dazed, pointing at one of the bodies lying on the ground.

Rodney was a newer Rider, taken in just a few months ago. He was tall but frail, all arms and legs, not an ounce of fat on him. His gaunt features were stuck in a grimace and he was shaking. One of his arms was bent at an impossible angle. Benny nodded at Swank. They picked him up, and he shrieked loudly without opening his eyes, clawing at his arm with the one that still worked.

"I sure hope this caravan was hauling a big delivery of stimpaks," Benny muttered, surveying the carnage around him. The smoke had mostly cleared out, and Benny could see at least three more motionless human bodies on the ground. Even more bighorners. It didn't smell yet, but Benny had done enough raiding to know that the stench of rot was imminent.

Benny and Swank carried Rodney to the caravanner camp, trying to keep his mangled arm from swinging around too much and ignoring his moaning. The caravanner camp wasn't in much better shape than the new graveyard it was responsible for down the road. Three bodies lay on the ground, in various states of distortion. The woman in the cowboy hat responsible for the massacre lay sprawled out, a victim of a throwing spear. A pair of brahmin bleated, untouched; everyone knew better than to blemish perfectly good livestock. Bighorners grazed around the carnage, trying to find patches of exposed grass. Setting Rodney down, Benny and Swank joined the other Boot Riders combing the camp for loot.

Figuring the tents and brahmin packs had probably already been picked clean, Benny went to search the woman in the cowboy hat. He knelt down. She had a pretty face and olive-colored skin. Next to her, he found the source of their destruction: a stout grenade rifle with a wooden stock and a cast-iron barrel. He picked it up and collapsed the barrel forward. The size of the loading chamber looked like it took the bigger 40mm grenades. No wonder the damn thing sent him sailing through the air.

Searching her jacket, he found a precious stimpak and a dogtag. Turning the dogtag over, there was a small inscription: "Maria Gomez, Private Second Class, NCR." _Ex-military_ , Benny thought, _no wonder she almost killed us all._

Maria's belt had a small leather holster on it. Benny could see a cream-colored pistol grip sticking out with the image of a blue-robed woman emblazoned on the side of it. Benny unclasped the holster and pulled the gun out, immediately recognizing it as the shiny ass pistol he saw from the hilltop. It was the most beautiful weapon he had ever seen. The grips were well-crafted pearl, and the barrel was adorned with a polished nickel finish festooned with an ornate floral pattern. The trigger was solid gold.

Benny quickly shoved the handgun in his waistband. Might be best to keep this baby out of the communal loot pile. He'd been out of a gun for a while; his piece of shit revolver broke a few weeks ago fighting off a cazador when he was out scouting with Swank.

As Benny stood up, a fiery pain ran down his back, nearly sending him back to the ground. Hopefully that wasn't going to be permanent. He walked back over to Rodney, still lying on the ground with a scowl etched into his face. Swank was hunched over him.

"Hey, how's that leg doing?" Benny asked, gesturing to Swank's soaked pant leg.

"I'm fine," Swank mumbled, "Rodney could use it though."

Benny murmured his assent, handing Swank the stimpak. Swank slipped the plastic cap off, revealing a sharp needle. Benny cringed and turned away, just in time to hear Rodney scream as Swank pricked his arm. A gaggle of Riders were forming around Bingo in the center of the wreckage.

"Glorious, Chief Bingo, absolutely glorious!" a burly Rider – and kiss-ass – named Cloud yelped in excitement as Bingo swigged from a newly-acquired bottle of Nuka Cola in the middle of the chaos.

"A splendid hunt," Bingo loudly affirmed, a smile creeping across his face. Benny shuddered.

Tommy, the mustached goon, pushed his way through the crowd of Riders and marched up to Bingo. "Sir, we found another one."

Bingo laughed heartily, "Let's see him then!"

Another Rider shoved a small man forward. He collapsed on his knees directly in front of Bingo. From behind him, Benny could just see his light brown hair, partially matted to the back of his head with a patch of blood. Wearing neat leather armor and visibly shaking, it was apparent that he was the merchant of the operation. He certainly didn't look like another ex-soldier.

"Do you want to die?" Bingo bellowed. The man moved his mouth, but no noises came out. "I asked if you wanted to die!" Bingo roared.

"N-n-no," the man stammered in barely a whisper.

"Well it's your lucky fucking day," Bingo declared, baring his teeth and turning to Cloud, "Cloud, today I call you to prove your honor." Cloud let out a loud whoop and threw his fist in the air. Bingo reached into a large hide pouch slung over his shoulder and pulled out two jagged combat knives. He tossed one on the ground in front of the stammering caravanner and handed the other to Cloud.

Following suit, the rest of the Riders formed a loose circle around Cloud and man, still on his knees, staring idly at the knife. Benny, like all Boot Riders, was well aware of the Honor of the Hunt; each of them had done it at some point. It was a one-on-one knife fight to the death. Bingo always had the combat knives on him. Rarely, the ritual occurred between two Boot Riders. More often it was like this: a Boot Rider squaring off against a barely-functioning raid victim.

"Pick it up," Cloud shrieked. The man silently shook his head. Cloud kicked him hard in the gut. Benny winced; he could almost feel the wind being knocked out of him. "Pick it up!" Cloud roared, even louder.

The man, holding his stomach and keeled over, clumsily reached out for the knife, clutching it weakly.

"Now get up," Cloud instructed.

The man, clearly fearing another kick, slowly stood, keeping his eyes averted from Cloud. He was still violently shaking. Hunched over in pain, he was not even two thirds the height of Cloud. Cloud wasn't Bingo-sized – nobody was that big – but he was huge in his own right, covered in tattoos, with a pony tail. He smirked, stretching his arms out to either side, the muscles of his broad frame rippling. He tilted his head slowly to each side, his massive neck popping twice.

"You may survive if you prove your honor," Bingo bellowed from the edge of the newly formed circle, "Begin!" The crowd of Boot Riders erupted into cheers.

Cloud lumbered toward the caravanner. The caravanner's glazed eyes bulged as he realized his impending doom approaching. He turned and ran headlong into the barrier of Boot Rider bodies standing between him and rest of the wasteland. Someone pushed him back into the ring, causing him to stumble and fall. Cloud pounced, bringing his knife down. The caravanner clumsily rolled, dodging the strike by an inch. Cloud's knife was submerged down to the hilt in the Mojave sand. He jerked it out effortlessly.

As Cloud turned, snarling like an animal, the man managed to awkwardly stand again. Cloud lunged forward, knife pointed at the caravanner's already-bruised gut. The man inelegantly swiveled to his left, again dodging the killing blow, but nearly tumbling to the ground in the process. Cloud, losing his balance from his own momentum, crashed forward as his knife collided with nothing but air.

Rather than capitalizing on Cloud's fall, the caravanner ran to the other side of the makeshift arena, putting as much distance as possible between himself and his would-be killer. Cloud slowly brought himself back to his feet, turning to face the clumsy caravanner. "We don't have all day to play, little mouse," he growled.

Little mouse? Cloud was certainly a strong warrior, but he wasn't exactly the wittiest Boot Rider in the bunch.

"End him!" Bingo shouted, clearly getting impatient. Around him, Boot Riders pumped their fists in the air and screamed in encouragement.

Cloud roared and ran at him, his combat knife held high in the air. The man sprinted to his right, running along the perimeter of the human circle, doing his best to stay away. Cloud bellowed as he chased after him, unable to keep up with his smaller, more agile prey. Cloud was big and strong, but he moved at the pace that one would expect of his boulder-sized body.

After a few moments of watching Cloud struggle to keep up with the caravanner, someone stuck their leg out, sending the man sailing to the ground. Heaving from the exertion of sprinting, Cloud ambled toward the prone caravanner, raising the jagged combat knife one last time. With a newly formed confidence, the caravanner quickly rolled out of the way of the blade as Cloud brought it down, and Cloud's knife was once again submerged. This time, the man was ready. Scrambling to his feet, he slashed wildly at Cloud's exposed calves. Yelping in pain, Cloud fell to his knees. The man raised his knife, ready to prove his honor.

 _Bang._

The caravanner froze for a moment, then slumped forward face-first onto the ground. In the middle of the circle, Benny stood, his arm outstretched, pointing his polished nickel pistol at the spot the nearly-victorious caravanner once stood. Everything was silent, absent a cool evening breeze and Cloud's muffled sobbing as he clutched his legs.


	3. Chapter 3

The stunned circle of Riders stared at Benny. Benny could see Swank staring idly at the ground, slowly shaking his head. Bingo's light blue eyes bulged, threatening to jump out of their sockets.

Benny put his arm down, and turned to Bingo, "We've already lost a couple of our boys today. Just gotta rig the game sometimes, baby." He didn't have much love for Cloud. The idiot was mostly just a big hype man for the Chief, but that was no reason to sentence him to death.

Surprisingly, Bingo didn't roar in anger or start spewing profanities. Instead, his eyes returned to the inside of his head, albeit still glazed over from liquor, and he slowly kneeled down. Moving at a snail's pace, still in complete silence, he sat his Nuka Cola on the ground and removed the leather pouch he used to store the combat knives and his booze. Standing back up, he glared at Benny, his face bright red. He was on him instantly.

Benny saw a fist soaring toward his face. Too surprised to even react, he felt the impact and heard the crunch of his nose breaking. Seeing stars, he staggered backward, tripping on something. He landed flat on his back and felt a fiery pain shoot through his spine. Before he could even think, he felt something smash into his ribs. Then his chest. Then his head.

Instinctively, he curled up into a ball, pressing his hands against the back of his head, his elbows meeting in front of his face. The beating didn't stop. He felt Bingo's boot dig into every bit of him over and over again. Against his eyelids, smashed against his face, he could see a kaleidoscope of colors that flashed red on every impact. He felt the Mojave sand against his face. It might be the last thing he ever felt.

Just as Benny was sure that Bingo's bloodlust wouldn't be filled until there was another corpse in the caravan camp, it ended. Still afraid to open his eyes and leave the fetal position, Benny remained motionless. He heard Bingo clear his throat and spit. He immediately felt a warm, sticky mass splatter across the hand covering his face.

"Finish your looting, and let's get a move on. We're losing daylight," Bingo said cheerily. Benny could hear the smile in his voice. Fucking psychopath.

The utterly silent circle of Boot Riders slowly began to disperse. As Benny opened his eye – the only one he was still capable of opening – he saw a hand reach down and grab the nickel-plated pistol. Not much he could do about it.

He felt someone grab his torso. His eye slammed shut again. Tensing up, he pulled his knees tight against his chest.

"It's me buddy," Swank whispered, "Let's get you out of here."

Benny tried to move, but some combination of tense muscles and instincts wouldn't let him leave the ground. Maybe he was going to die here after all.

Swank sighed, and Benny felt Swank's arms encircle his torso. He let out a muffled yelp as Swank tightened his grip and lifted him off the ground. He swung him over his back. Benny could feel pain radiating out over every inch of his body.

As they walked away, Benny opened his 'good' eye. It was so puffy that he couldn't manage to see the world through much more than a sliver. Through the narrow crevice, he could see the fuzzy movements of Boot Riders combing through the camp, picking up the last of the scraps. In the middle of it all, he saw the blurry outline of Bingo. He stood, hands on his hips, grinning at Benny. _Grinning._ Half-delirious and consumed with pain, Benny's stomach turned, sick with a hatred for someone he was powerless against.

Swank threw Benny on the back of his bighorner. What was his name? Jumbo, Junker? Swank clicked his tongue, "Giddyup June." June, that's right. He either had a concussion or was a bad friend. Probably a bit of both.

Swank rode June slowly, trotting back toward camp. Even at their slow pace, Benny could feel every step, bump, and change in incline throughout his body. Every single part of him was an instrument of pain now. The clothes against his skin stung. The bighorner's fur stung. Even pressing his lips together sent small bursts of pain through his nerve endings.

Finally, they reached a small corral near the narrow canyon. Everything sounded muffled and distant to Benny through the haze of agony, but he heard Swank and the guard exchange a few words. Swank pulled him off the bighorner, slinging him over his back again. When they reached the Boot Rider camp, it was dark. A massive bonfire cast eerie orange and yellow light over the tents. Through the slit of his eyelid, Benny could see that the place was mostly deserted, save for a few women milling about. It may have been 2274, but the Boot Riders lived like it was 1800; women were generally expected to maintain the camp while Bingo and the boys went out raiding. As far as he knew, none of them even knew how to ride. It certainly wasn't as bad for Boot Rider women as it was in some groups, like the Legion, but they weren't given much opportunity either.

Walking up to Benny's tent, Swank pulled back the flaps and ducked inside. He laid Benny down on his bedroll and knelt down next to him. Benny could barely make out his features through the haze of his barely-opened eye. He heard a splash of water and felt a cool, damp rag on his forehead.

"I'm sorry. He shouldn't have done you like that. But what the fuck were thinking? You can't interrupt the ritual like that," the words poured out of Swank in a rapid crescendo, "You're lucky he even left you alive. Do you have a fucking death wish? And to save Cloud, who gives a shit about that guy?"

"I'm gonna kill him," Benny replied softly, ignoring Swank's questions.

"Benny, get your shit together. You're not gonna kill him, and you know it. If you wanna get out, we can get out. Run away maybe, try and find another group. But don't be an idiot," Swank growled.

"I'm not going anywhere, baby," Benny murmured, his eyes closed, "I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch." Swank sat silently for a moment, his lips pursed. He shook his head and left the tent.

Benny shifted around in his bedroll. He imagined his whole body as one big raw yellow bruise. How was he even going to sleep like this? As the predicament roiled around in his head, unconsciousness slowly and pleasantly dragged him into its embrace.

"Wake up, you idiot," he heard Swank grumble after what felt like mere moments. The rays of sun filtering through his tent flaps revealed otherwise. He felt pain immediately. It was all he could feel.

"Ugh," was all Benny could manage. He heard loud noises outside, a bustle of activity.

"They're breaking down camp. I'm packed up, but you need to get ready too."

"Wha – what's going on?" Benny mumbled, opening his working eye. His view wasn't quite through a slit anymore, but he still couldn't see much. Swank was kneeling over him again, his brows furrowed.

"I can fill you in later. Do I need to carry you again, or can you manage on your own?" Swank asked.

Benny sat up. Every bone and tendon in his body felt like it was scraping against another. He heard a crack as he straightened his back. "Fuck," he gasped, the exertion almost sending him back to the ground. "I can do this," he said through gritted teeth, more to convince himself than Swank.

"Yeah, okay," Swank muttered, as he started gathering Benny's things.

The two of them loaded Benny's duffel bag with his belongings and collapsed his tent, folding it into a crumpled mass of bighorner hide. Benny tried to help as much as he could, but he couldn't bring himself to bend over, and he had to take constant breaks. He could move around, but doing so was torture. Swank either didn't notice or didn't care. He worked wordlessly, barely acknowledging Benny. The rest of the camp looked like a hive of giant worker ants. Everyone, from Bingo and Cloud all the way down to the kids, pitched in. It was a well-rehearsed routine for the nomadic group. The mass of Boot Riders made the exodus from the ravine to the corral, leaving nothing but a ring of rocks where the bonfire was held.

Swank, still giving Benny the cold shoulder, turned to him as they arrived at the corral. "Alice didn't make it," he said tersely, "After you load up on a pack bighorner, you can ride with me and June."

"Works for me," Benny grunted, expressionless. There was no point in getting too worked up about his fallen steed now. He would just add her to the list of things to get up worked up about when he had his chance for revenge.

As Benny was strapping his duffel bag and tent to one of the pack bighorners, he felt a tap on his back. Turning around, he saw Tommy and his giant mustache. Tommy let out a soft whistle, "You look like shit man. Let me give you a hand."

"Sure, thanks," Benny replied. His hands, bruised and covered in scabs, felt arthritic, making it tough to tie knots to strap his pack in.

"You know," Tommy said in a hushed tone, as he secured Benny's pack, "None of us wanted to see Cloud die out there, except for Bingo. Between you and me, your little stunt may have earned you a beating, but it also earned you the respect of a lot of Riders."

"What are you saying?" Benny asked, perking up.

Tommy finished strapping Benny's belongings and turned to him, "I'm not saying shit, and, if I was, I would deny it later. Just know that you're not alone." With that, he turned and walked away.

As Benny returned to Swank and June, newly elated despite his nonstop pain, Swank had laid out a small hide blanket and sat cross-legged on it. He had a small medical kit open next to him and called over to Benny, "Come on, you've suffered enough. Get over here."

As Swank began bandaging Benny and applying precious healing powder, Benny filled him in on his conversation with Tommy.

"He's not the only one," Swank revealed sheepishly, "Rodney and a few of the others actually said similar things to me last night."

"Things are changing quick, baby. It's about time for a new cat to be runnin' things," Benny said with a glint in his eye.

Swank shook his head. "It doesn't work that way, Benny. This isn't a popularity contest. There's only one way, and even in your best condition," Swank looked around briefly and whispered, "you couldn't take Bingo one-on-one." Benny frowned in response, his lips making a perfectly straight line. "Anyway, let me fill you in on what happened after you passed out," Swank added, quickly changing the subject.

As Swank finished bandaging Benny and the Boot Rider convoy began marching northeast, Swank gave Benny the details of the preceding night. Bingo had called an all-hands gathering around the bonfire and revealed to the Riders that one of the merchants was carrying orders from a group called the Crimson Caravan Company. Apparently, the caravan was headed east toward Vegas. Although it was well-known that the city was a desolate – albeit impressive-looking – ghost town controlled by roving bandits, news had spread west that there was something happening; the city was stirring. Bingo ordered the camp to be moved in the morning. If Vegas really was coming to life, that meant more well-stocked caravans would be headed that way, which meant easy pickings for the Boot Riders. Benny nodded along. It wasn't a bad plan, especially by Bingo's standards.

"What do you think it means?" Benny asked.

"I think the Purple Caravan Company, or whatever the fuck they're called, is full of shit," Swank replied, "But it doesn't matter. If people believe it, then there will be caravans, and that's what really matters." Benny nodded again, but something felt off. The bigger caravan companies weren't prone to taking unfounded risks. There was something to this rumor.

The mass of bighorners and Boot Riders traveled northeast for three days, making camp late each evening. For a time, Benny could make out the silhouette of the massive Helios One complex to the southeast. He was thankful they were giving it a wide berth. Some gang – the Brotherhood of Steel – had taken up residence there. The Boot Riders had made the mistake of clashing with them before. They quickly learned that throwing spears and barely-functioning submachine guns didn't do much against power armor and gatling lasers.

In the late afternoon on the third day, they crested a large hill, and, finally, they could see the city. Las Vegas: untouched by the bombs of the old world but ravaged by the rust and the raiders of the new one. As the Riders began setting up camp for the final time, Benny pulled out his binoculars. From their vantage point on the hill, the Riders were about three miles southeast of the city. It was a great position to scoop up Vegas-bound caravans without drawing too much attention from the bandits in the city.

Through the high-powered lenses, the city did not appear as Benny remembered. Dim lights brightened the narrow corridors created by the formidable buildings lining the streets. Normally the place was pitch black. On the edge of the city, he could see the fuzzy outlines of people dragging huge chunks of metal across the grounds. As he adjusted the lenses outward, he could a structure – a wall, maybe – snaking around the western edge of the city. _What the fuck was going on?_

Benny tucked his binoculars back into his duffel bag. He tossed it on the ground next to the bighorner hide tent he had yet to begin setting up. He needed to find Swank. He meandered through the crowd of bighorners and Riders pitching tents and building small fires. The sun was starting its final descent, and the bustle of the camp was shrouded in the last purplish light the day was willing to give. He spotted Swank, nearly finished with his tent, and jogged over to him.

"Swank, baby, you gotta check this out," Benny said excitedly, "There's something going on down there in the –"

"Well _howdy_ there, Boot Riders," a mechanical voice boomed over loudspeakers, cutting Benny off, "Do I have some news for you!"


	4. Chapter 4

The activity in the camp slowly ground to a halt as more and more people turned to the source of the strange greeting. Just outside the jumble of tents, bighorners, and Riders was an old-world robot. At its base was a fat, black tire surrounded by a simple metal chassis. A broad-shouldered frame of blue-tinted metal with a screen housed inside of it sat precariously atop the wheeled structure. A cartoonish, black-and-white headshot of a cowboy wearing a hat with a bandana tied around his neck was depicted on the screen.

The machine raised one of its noodle-like arms and clicked three metal claws together, making a metallic clank. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to point me to a fella named Bingo, I hear he's the guy in charge of your little posse," he blared through a black metal speaker above the cowboy-faced screen.

Benny saw Tommy dash into Bingo's tapestry-covered command tent. A moment later, Bingo emerged, whiskey in hand, his long blonde hair covered in knotted rats. "What the fuck are you" he bellowed across the campground.

"Well howdy, Bingo. My name's Victor, and I'm here to deliver an offer to you on Mr. House's behalf."

"How the fuck do you know who I am?" Bingo asked, his hand slipping to a pistol grip in his waistband.

"A bunch of hooligans ridin' them bighorn creatures tends to get people's attention," Victor replied, his staticky face remaining fixed as he 'spoke,' "Especially when it involves attacking shipments into New Vegas. Now that riles Mr. House up _real bad._ But, hey, no hard feelings. Like I said, Mr. House has got a nice little deal for you if you play your cards right."

Bingo cocked his head slightly. He looked confused. Probably too many big words. "Scrap this piece of junk," Bingo yelled, pulling a long-barreled pistol from his waistband and pointing it at the robot.

"No wait!" Benny yelled, "Maybe we should hear him out!"

Bingo glared at him, "One more word and we'll junk you too." He turned back to Victor and pulled the trigger five times in rapid succession. The sound of metal pinging metal reverberated throughout the camp.

Unphased, Victor's screen crackled slightly, "Well partner, that's not any way to greet a friend. Holster that, and be quick about it."

"Get him!" Bingo roared. Boot Riders around the camp pulled out pistols, submachine guns, and throwing spears, showering the robot in bullets and javelins. Everything pinged off harmlessly.

"It's hog-killin' time!" Victor blared through his speaker. He held up his right arm, and Benny heard the rattle of machine gun fire. Benny ran for cover as the camp descended into chaos.

"Over there!" Swank, pinned down behind a crate, yelled to Benny, pointing to one of the pack bighorners. Benny could see the wooden stock of Private Maria's newly-requisitioned grenade launcher sticking out of the pack.

Benny nodded and dashed toward the bighorner. He ripped the grenade launcher out of the pack and collapsed the stock and barrel, revealing the ammo chamber. Nestled inside was a 40mm grenade. _Fuck yes._ He turned and leveled the grenade launcher at Victor, pointing it just slightly above the robot's dark blue frame. The machine was facing the other direction, sending a hail of bullets into Bingo's command tent.

 _Thwump._

Benny felt a wave of heat threaten to blister his skin as a yellow-orange explosion of fire and smoke filled the air. As the smoke cleared, he could still hear the occasional bark of gunfire and shouting throughout the camp. On the ground, Victor was still in one piece, but the robot wasn't moving. Its blue frame was heavily melted, and its screen was completely black. Cloud lumbered toward it, his legs wrapped in bandages, still healing from his fight with the merchant. He plunged a spear into Victor's screen, sending electrical sparks flying with a loud crackle.

"Victory!" Bingo shouted, emerging from behind his burning tent riddled with bullet holes. Blood ran down his left arm; it looked like just a graze. "Looks like Victor wasn't so tough after all," he laughed. Around him, dazed Riders emerged from cover in various states of disarray. Benny could see Tommy behind Bingo, coughing from the smoke.

Swank walked up to Bingo and dropped a corpse in front of him with a thud, "Chief, we lost Rodney." Just another vendetta against the chief to add to the ever-growing list.

"Another Boot Rider receives an honorable death from the hunt, as he would've wanted," Bingo said, his always-present, sadistic grin spread across his face. "Now finish making camp," he barked.

"Chief, I'm not sure that's a good idea," Benny piped up, "I was looking down at the city, and there's a lot of commotion. There's a lot of people down there. That robot showing up means that they know where we are. We'll be sitting ducks if they plan a bigger ambush."

"Hah!" Bingo snorted derisively, "Let them send another robot. We could use the scrap metal." Benny wanted to argue, but his wounds were still healing from the last time he pushed his luck too far with Bingo. _Let it go._

The Boot Riders finished setting up camp, and a distinct sense of unease hung in the air. As night fell and the fires around the camp began to dwindle, Benny and Swank found themselves laying prone on the edge of the camp, overlooking Las Vegas. Benny finally relayed to Swank what he had seen through his binoculars earlier. Confirming his account, the pair could see lights scattered throughout the city and its outskirts.

"So what do you think it means?" Swank asked solemnly.

"I think those cats are comin' for us. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of people down there, and they know right where we're at. I'm not sleepin' tonight, not so I can get massacred." Benny replied, gazing down at the city.

"Not what I meant," Swank began, "What do you think it means in a bigger sense? He called Las Vegas, _New_ Vegas. And who's this House guy?"

"It's something big. I've got no fuckin' clue what, but somethin' big. These cats are reshaping the Mojave, baby," Benny answered with the familiar glint in his eye, "And, if it wasn't for Bingo, we might've been in on it. Now Rodney's dead, and we're probably gonna follow in his footsteps soon."

"This might be the opportunity you've been waiting for, Benny."

Benny turned to Swank, raising his eyebrows, "What do you mean?"

Swank pointed at the city, "Why don't we go down there? Tell them fuck Bingo and that we want in."

Benny smiled, "We could see about bringing another Victor or two back with us too, see if we can get some of the others to join us. Start ourselves a coup, baby."

"What an interesting plan." Benny jerked his head around and jumped to his feet. Cloud stood behind them, his tattooed arms crossed, "I think Bingo might find it more interesting than me."

"Now why would you want to go and do something like that?" Benny asked slowly, trying to suppress his terror. He saw Swank's hand slowly working its way toward the switchblade in his waistband.

Cloud shook his head and uncrossed his arms, revealing a shiny nickel-plated pistol in the process, one that Benny recognized from the caravan raid instantly, "Watch that hand, Swank. Wouldn't want any more blood spilled today, right?"

"Cloud, I saved your fucking life. Bingo left you to die out there. Don't you wanna be something other than Bingo's yes-man? You know, stand up for yourself, baby?" Benny pleaded.

"You didn't save me, Benny," Cloud smirked, "You denied me my right to an honorable death."

"Would you mind toning down the brainwash, just a little bit?" Swank muttered.

Cloud sneered, baring an ugly yellow set of teeth, "You two always thought you were so much clever than the rest of us. Always sneaking around. And yet here I am with the drop on you. Come with me. We're going to have a word with Bingo."

Benny and Swank walked a few feet in front of Cloud through the camp as he kept the nickel-plated gun trained on them. Benny's stomach dropped as they walked up to Bingo's familiar red-brown tent. This close to getting out of this mess and an idiot like Cloud was going to stop him. Hard to believe.

Tommy stood guard outside Bingo's tent. Looking half asleep, his submachine gun was slung over his shoulder, loosely pointing at the ground. "How can I help you fellas tonight?" he asked hazily.

"These traitors were planning a coup against Bingo," Cloud bellowed, "I need to see him now."

Tommy's brow furrowed. "You know, he really doesn't like it when people wake him in the night, Cloud. Maybe you can look after these two until the morning." The glorious son of a bitch was trying to buy them some time.

"Fetch him now," Cloud commanded.

Tommy pulled at his bushy mustache in thought, "You know what? You wanna piss the big man off, you can at least do it yourself. Be my fuckin' guest." He stepped aside from in front of the command tent and gestured toward the door.

"Watch them," Cloud barked in response.

As Cloud moved past Tommy, Swank acted instantaneously. He swooped behind Cloud, grabbing his long, mangled hair, jerking his head backward violently. In one fluid motion, his switchblade was on Cloud's exposed throat. "You yell and you're dead. Now let's talk," Swank whispered in his ear. Benny stood frozen in disbelief.

"Oh what the fuck?" Tommy moaned, his eyes wide and bloodshot with his submachine gun aimed at the tangle of Cloud and Swank, "You guys want me to go down with the fucking ship too."

"Shoot him or you die with these traitors," Cloud snarled, prompting Swank to push his blade more firmly against his exposed throat.

"You keep it down, or I'm gonna stop bein' so friendly," Swank growled, "Benny grab his gun."

Coming back to his senses, Benny quickly yanked the nickel-plated pistol from Cloud's grip. He slipped the gun into his waistband and put his hands up cautiously, "Look, Tommy. We were never here. You don't need to shoot us, you don't need to shoot Cloud. You didn't see shit. You don't gotta be a part of this." He glanced back at Swank and Cloud, "Let's go for a little walk."

Swank started to backpedal slowly, on his tiptoes to keep his arm firmly around Cloud's massive neck. Cloud, his face visibly red even in the dull moonlight, grudgingly, half-walked, half-stumbled back with him. Benny kept his hands up and slowly shuffled after them. Tommy, shaking violently, kept his gun trained on Swank and Cloud but made no move after them. The last thing Benny saw before he slipped out of view behind a tent was Tommy's grimace and pleading eyes. The first conscription in their little revolution.

As the trio edged their way toward the outskirts of the camp, Benny whispered to Swank, "So what's the plan now?"

Swank glared at him, "My plan was saving our lives. Now let's hear _your_ plan. You wanna be Brutus, time to play the part."

Good point. "Well, I've already saved this ungrateful radroach's life once," Benny said gesturing to Cloud, "And that came to bite me right in the ass. I say we off him now and stick with the original plan. Head to Vegas, get some support and come back."

Swank shook his head as he continued force-hobbling Cloud away from camp with the knife to his neck, "That's a death sentence for Tommy. You saw the guy. He was barely keeping his shit together. Once Bingo wakes up, sees Cloud is dead, and realizes that you and I are gone, even that moron will be able to put the pieces together. He's gonna realize Tommy's in the middle of a mental breakdown, and he'll break him before we're back. So yeah, fuck Cloud, but Tommy just saved our skins, so you're gonna need to do better than that."

Cloud let out a sigh of relief. Benny put his knuckles to his temples and furrowed his brows. Swank was right. He needed to think. In the distance, Benny heard the bleating of the bighorner corral. Benny's eyes narrowed on Cloud. "Don't you get too fuckin' comfortable yet, you prick," he turned to Swank, "Keep him quiet and get him a little further away. I know how to fix this." Swank nodded.

Benny crept away slowly, keeping his body low, darting along the tents dotting the outer perimeter of the camp. Everyone was asleep, but he wasn't taking any chances. He'd already been careless once tonight. As he reached the other side of the camp, he peered from behind a tent at the corral. The warm stench of livestock hung in the air. Two guards with battered pistols in their waistbands flanked a makeshift wooden gate. The rest of the corral consisted of two rows of barbed wire strung around a circle of wooden stakes in the ground. Small gas lanterns hung on metal rods were scattered around the pen. A third guard patrolled the ragged boundary, sticking close to the wooden stakes. More security for the precious herd than for even Bingo himself.

The corral was in the most defensible part of the camp. It had been set up on a small slice of the hill jutting to the south. Three sides of the crude square-shaped pen were surrounded by steep not-quite-cliffs. The remaining side was where the guarded gate was located. It was smart; only one access point for a force of any real size. Luckily for Benny, he wasn't planning on marching an army up to the damn thing.

He melted into the shadows and dashed back through the camp to the gentle slope the Boot Riders ascended that afternoon. He hurried down it, keeping low and watching his feet to make sure he didn't step on any crunchy weeds or disturb any stones. His years of scouting with Swank kept him nearly invisible in the velvety moonlit darkness of the Mojave. Reaching the bottom of the incline, he swung to his left, doubling back to the steepest part of the hill. When he reached it, he looked up at the cloudy, starless sky protruding over the rocky gradient above him. It wouldn't be an easy climb, but it certainly wasn't impossible.

The ascent was steep enough that he had to use his hands and feet. As he worked his limbs to find purchase, small rocks inevitably tumbled down the hill. He winced at every clang they made on their way down, praying that the snores of bighorners would cover his noise. Upon reaching the top, his small eyes, framed beneath his slicked black hair, peered over the cliff. He ducked his head back immediately, cursing under his breath. The perimeter guard was directly in front of him. He let out a silent prayer. He heard heavy footsteps. Walking away. _Lucky._

He quickly scrambled the rest of the way up. In a half-crouch, he crept toward the bighorner enclosure, the guard only a few meters in front of him facing the other direction. He paused at a point equidistant between two lanterns, shrouded in as much darkness as possible. After the guard started to round the corner of the pen, he pulled a small knife from his waistband. He started sawing methodically at the barbed wire. _Zip._ His knife found its way through. Now for the second strand. _Zip._ He pulled the separated wires apart slowly, creating a small opening in the pen. He kept pulling until the opening was wide enough for one of the creatures to slip through. _Click._ He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as loudly as he dared. A smaller bighorner blearily opened its eyes, revealing its massive eyeballs. _Click. Click._ Moving painfully slowly, the animal rose and lumbered over to Benny.

"Good girl," he whispered. He pulled the bigorner close to him, grabbing its mane. He then gently pressed one of the cut strands of barbed wire against its forehead, exerting more and more pressure, until it began to softly bleat. "Shhhh," he hissed, pulling away.

Now for the hard part. Bighorners were naturally mountainous creatures, but they weren't exactly agile, and getting a 2500-pound mass down a steep slope wasn't inconspicuous in the best of circumstances. Nevertheless, he slowly and carefully guided her to the ledge and started down the hill. As they began the descent, droplets of rain began to fell – small at first but with a gradual crescendo into a strong, rhythmic patter. Benny held the creature's mane tightly as he led her. The rivulets of water running off the bighorner's matted fur made it slippery and hard to grip. Nevertheless, he was thankful for the rain. It would no doubt cloud the guards' vision and make it harder to hear the bighorner's hooves clopping against the rocky hillside.

Benny found Swank and Cloud largely as he left them outside of the camp. By now, the velvety darkness had been replaced by the sun's first rays. In the dull morning light, Benny could see Swank's wet, shaggy hair plastered over his handsome features. Cloud had a small trail of blood running down his neck – not enough to cause any serious injury, but it was apparent that Swank was being careful to use the knife to remind him of his predicament. As Benny approached them with the bighorner, he pulled a bottle of vodka out of his waistband and took a long swig.

"Seems a little early to be celebrating. Care to clue me in?" Swank asked.

Benny looked into Cloud's eyes. For all his talk about being robbed of an honorable death, he looked terrified of the possibility now. "Luckily for this son of a bitch, there's a way he gets out of this alive. We're gonna tie him to the bighorner and send him off in the rain. By the time he gets back, we'll be in Vegas. Now get him on the ground so we can bind his hands."

Swank nodded and shoved Cloud to the ground, triggering a loud grunt as his hulking frame hit the dusty surface. Benny pressed his boot into Cloud's back, forcing him down prone. As Swank began to kneel, Benny grabbed his arm and pulled him in close, whispering in his ear, "I've already let him live once and regretted it. I'm not leaving anything to chance this time." Benny tossed the half-empty vodka bottle to the ground, "He was out drinking alone tonight, passed out drunk, and a loose bighorner stepped on his head. One big accident, nobody's suspicious. Tommy won't have anything to worry about."

"What are you assholes talking about?" Cloud asked.

Comprehension filled Swank's face, "And how did the bighorner get loose?"

"None of the guards saw it happen, but this little guy pushed his head against the barbed wire until it broke," Benny gestured toward the small cut where he pressed the barbed wire against the bighorner's head, "Just a freak accident. Now if I may."

"I asked you douchebags a question," Cloud growled, his head still pressed against the ground.

"Here's a little honor for you, Cloud," Benny pulled the bighorner forward by its mane one last time. Even through the downpour, they heard a sickening crunch. "Let's fill Tommy in before he does something dumb."

"You sly son of a bitch," Swank grinned.

As if on cue, a mustached figure came running through a pair of tents in the early morning twilight. Tommy's eyes were wide, manic-looking. "One of the bighorners escaped," Tommy shouted, "I figured you two were making a run for it, and I want in!"

"Fuck," Swank muttered, as Tommy dashed toward them.

Benny grabbed Tommy by his shoulders, "Calm down. How do you know a bighorner escaped?"

"The corral guards, they saw a hole in the fence. They're talking to Bingo now and," Tommy looked down at the pile of mush above Cloud's neck, "Oh fuck. Oh fuck. You killed him? We're all dead, man. We're all dead!"

Benny violently shook Tommy by the shoulders, sending his head bobbing, "Keep it together, Tommy! Just go back to your post; it looks like an accident. Hurry before Bingo realizes your gone!" Tommy nodded his head, tears running down his face.

The rain had died down to little more than a drizzle as the trio dashed through narrow corridors of Boot Rider tents. The only evidence of the downpour was the smell of moist loam hanging in the air. As they rounded the final corner to Bingo's command tent, they instantly came to a sickening realization.

They were too late.


	5. Chapter 5

With the command tent looming behind them, the corral guards surrounded Bingo. A head above all of them, Benny could make out an uncharacteristic grimace on Bingo's face. Normally, even in anger, his soft features wore his deranged smile. The perimeter guard Benny had just evaded – a short, broad-shouldered man with fiery red hair – was groveling to Bingo.

"Chief, we were watching the whole time. I have no fucking clue how it happened."

Bingo's eyes, framed by his knotted nest of long, blonde hair, landed on Benny, Tommy, and Swank. "I think I may have an idea," he said, a grin spreading across his face, causing the color to drain from beneath Tommy's bushy mustache.

Benny threw his hands up and continued casually walking toward Bingo, "Woah, woah, woah. Sorry to add to your list of problems this morning Chief, but we got some bad news, baby." Bingo crossed his arms, furrowing his brow. "Swank and I were monitoring the camp, making sure we weren't going to get ambushed, and, well, we came across something terrible. It's Cloud, boss. He's dead. We came for you as soon as we saw, and Tommy wanted to investigate before bothering you with the news."

"I saw it too, Bingo," Swank piqued up, "He was passed out drunk, and a bighorner stepped on his head. It's a fuckin' mess."

Bingo's otherwise serious expression was frustrated by his sickly grin – at this point, it looked more like he was baring his teeth than smiling. "Tommy, come here," Bingo barked. As Tommy hesitantly walked toward Bingo, he was hunched over, trying to look as small as possible.

"Do you know why you're my head guard, Tommy?"

Tommy wordlessly shook his head.

"You're talented. You know how to shoot a gun. You'll generally kill without a second thought. But that goes for nearly all of my Boot Riders," Bingo began, as Tommy's face distorted with worry, "No, what makes you special, Tommy, is that you couldn't tell a lie to save your life. You're the most truthful bastard I've ever met."

Tommy said nothing in response. His body was shuddering. In the quiet of the morning, Benny could even hear the barrel of Tommy's gun tapping against his leg as he quivered.

"So let's hear it then, Tommy. Did an accident kill of my most loyal Riders?"

Tommy was silent for a moment, a pleading look on his face. "Y-y-y-yes," he stammered. Bingo silently reached into a hide pouch dangling from his waistband, slowly removing a jagged combat knife.

"Bingo, baby, at least come look at what we're talking about. We have time, there's no reason to act rash about this. Just –" Benny's beseeching was cut short as Bingo shoved Tommy to the ground with his free hand. In one fluid movement, he jumped onto Tommy, plunging the combat knife directly into his eye, splattering himself and everyone in the vicinity with dark red droplets. Tommy screamed as the metallic stench of blood hung in the air. With a sickening squelch, Bingo ripped the combat knife out and raised it again, ready to maim Tommy's second eye.

"Fuck you." Bingo looked up just in time to see Benny's boot connect with his chin. He rolled backwards awkwardly from the force of the impact. Behind him, the corral guards were dumbstruck, mouths agape. Although suddenly freed, Tommy seemed unaware. His hands clutched at his eye, still screaming in a bloodcurdlingly high pitch, causing a growing awestricken crowd to congregate around the center of the camp.

Bingo stumbled back to his feet, clearly dazed – probably from surprise as much as the impact. His face was a deep red, bordering on purple. Benny could see the whites of Bingo's knuckles with his iron grip on his combat knife. "You – you fucking idiot! I let you live before, but I won't make that same mistake," Bingo roared first at Benny and then with his head back, screaming into the air.

He lowered his head, spat at Benny, and began approaching him slowly, like he was stalking an animal. Benny put his feet shoulder-width apart, knelt into a slight crouch, and put his hands up, fingers curled. If he could dodge the first blow, he could wrestle the knife from Bingo. As Bingo closed in, he felt a mass whir past him. Swank now stood in front of him, hunting rifle aimed squarely at Bingo.

"No," Swank said simply.

"Get out of my way, or I'll kill you too," Bingo snarled, barely able to control his rage as spit flew from his mouth.

Swank loudly cocked his hunting rifle. Benny heard the familiar click of a bullet being slotted into the chamber of a submachine gun. The red-headed corral guard trained his gun on Swank. The other corral guards followed suit.

Benny jumped as he felt an open palm clamp down on his shoulder. He turned quickly to see the stoic face of a Boot Rider glaring at Bingo, with his arm now wrapped around Benny. "Rodney, Cloud, now Tommy. Your watch has hurt too many Riders, Bingo. If you're going to do Benny and Swank in too, go ahead and add one more," he said, his face bright red.

Benny heard some claps and whooping from the crowd. He could feel goosebumps going down his arms as a handful of other Boot Riders surrounded him and Swank. It wasn't exactly a groundswell of support, but at least they had a fighting chance.

"Well now partners, before I let you two duke it out, we have some unfinished business," a mechanical voice rang out. Benny and the crowd whipped around to see a black-and-white cowboy face in the middle of a broad-shouldered robot: Victor. This time, however, he was flanked by a large group of nearly identical robots, covered in the morning's fresh dew. Like Victor, they were dark blue with massive shoulder plates and perched atop a thick tire and chassis. However, instead of Victor's cowboy features, their crackly gray-toned screens displayed gruff officials with large noses and eccentric hats adorned with badges. Even louder than the robot's interruption was the deafening silence that followed, pierced only by Tommy's sobbing.

"We've got bigger fish to fry than tribal politics," Victor continued, clicking his metal claws and gesturing to the squad of robots on either side of him, "I'm hoping you folks will give me a little bit more of your time now."

Bingo almost looked like he was shivering, but, even in the morning, the Mojave was already warm. He was still shaking with rage. "We already scrapped you once, you dumb hunk of metal. You can wait," he commanded curtly, trying to play it cool but with a tremor in his voice that betrayed a simmering anger.

"As a matter of fact, I can't, partner. I know you folks are angrier than a couple of tomcats without whiskers, but I've got strict orders to negotiate with the leader or _leaders_ of your little group, and at the moment, it looks like you've got two: yourself and Benny, here," he replied in his robotic manner of speaking.

"This _traitor_ is no leader of the Boot Riders," Bingo snarled.

"Well not to get too philosophical about it," Victor began in his cheerful monotone, "But the line between traitor and leader depends on how many people believe you to be either. But anyhoo, like I said, you can get back to your little 'et tu Brutus' schtick after you've heard my offer." Victor's last word was punctuated by the cadre of securitrons raising their 'arms' and conspicuously cocking the weapons housed within them.

Seizing on the moment to prolong his life, Benny interjected. "Bingo, come on. Just wait ten minutes to murder me, so everyone else doesn't have to die too."

"Boss, maybe we should at least hear him out," the red-haired corral guard said slowly, his gun now aimed at the formidable wall of robots.

Bingo shook his head, his features scrunched together in a rough scowl. "Let's hear it then," he muttered, still seething.

"Wonderful!" Victor replied, "My boss, a fella by the name of Mr. House, sent me here to deliver y'all an offer. Although I'm his envoy, he's the man in control of this here securitron army. He's the president of New Vegas: the only city on the continent spared from the nuclear onslaught of the Great War. Now, this is where you boys come in."

"You've been the top dogs in the Mojave for a long time, but that's coming to an end. There's a new society out west: the New California Republic. They've been killing tribals like yourselves since before Bingo had his last haircut, and they're heading east. They'll crush you and everyone else in their way. _But_ , if you join up with Mr. House you can survive."

"We're rebuilding New Vegas, and if you join up, we'll give you weapons, power, and your own casino to manage. You won't be nomads anymore, but you'll be a powerful family that helps run New Vegas. Together, we can hold off the western threat and change the Mojave forever. However, Mr. House doesn't need you and he won't have you stand in the way, which leaves you three options: accept his offer to join him, leave the New Vegas strip, or be crushed by me and my friends here."

As Victor finished his offer, Tommy had curled up into a ball. He was no longer screaming, just silently sniffling. Victor looked like nothing more than a black silhouette as the sun rose behind him. Silence filled the camp for a few long moments.

"How do we know you're not full of shit?" Bingo asked finally.

"Well, for one, when's the last time you had a run-in with the Great Khans?" Victor said, to which Bingo shrugged in reply. "We gave them the same offer, and they didn't want to cooperate. Now, they're holed up way out east, too scared to come anywhere near here. But more important than that, look at the firepower we have _right here._ I wouldn't say the odds look particularly good for y'all. So, I'll ask you one last time: join, leave, or die?"

Bingo ran his hand through his hair. He now looked more weary than angry. Benny could only blame him so much. Yesterday, he was the de facto king of his little band of raiders. Today started with an attempted coup, and now he was faced with the choice of annihilation or embarrassment from an army of robots. His whole world had come crashing down in the course of a morning.

"Fine, we'll leave. We're nomads, not settled people. That life makes you weak. How long do we have?" Bingo grumbled quietly.

"Fuck that, baby. He's negotiating with both of us," Benny interjected, turning to the crowd of Boot Riders, "Let's get in on this action. We can leave our mark on the world."

"This isn't your decision, you arrogant son of a bitch," Bingo near-whispered to Benny. He was bruised but not broken.

Benny brushed past Swank and slowly walked over to the disgraced chief, looking him in the eyes. "I call on you to prove your honor, Bingo." A frontal fight wasn't Benny's preferred hand, but when the pot was for power, he would play nearly anything.

Bingo seemed taken aback. "I wouldn't have expected this from a coward, but I won't be the one to deny it to you." He quickly twirled the combat knife in his hand, extending it toward Benny hilt-first. Benny accepted it and slowly paced backward, keeping his eyes on Bingo. Bingo pulled the other jagged blade out of his hide pouch as the crowd of turncoat Boot Riders, corral guards, and securitrons formed a loose circle around the combatants.

As Benny neared the edge of the circle, Swank, walking next to him, hurriedly whispered into his ear, "You got a plan here?" Benny turned slowly to him, a solemn look on his face, and winked. Swank imperceptibly nodded and melted into the crowd.

Benny turned to Bingo, and the pair stared at one another. Their field of vision was sporadically interrupted by swirls of dust, loosened by the flurry of activity and unearthed by silent whispers of wind. Each stood, clad in gecko-skin armor, with their combat knives held low, blades facing the ground, daring the other to move.

Bingo broke the stalemate and slowly sauntered toward Benny. Benny began sidestepping, hugging the boundary of bodies forming the makeshift arena. Every time the hulking mass of blonde hair took a step forward, he took two to the side, keeping as much distance as possible between himself and the chief. Bingo was bigger and stronger than him, but he was faster, so putting ground between them would allow him to maximize his speed advantage while minimizing the devastation that Bingo would be able to unleash if they got to close quarters. He'd learned as much from the caravanner's upset victory against Cloud a few weeks earlier.

He kept his eyes locked on Bingo's feet, a trick he had learned from Swank. If someone was going to try and make a big move, you'd be able to tell immediately if they shifted their weight to the balls of their feet. Clearly getting tired of Benny's evasion, Bingo suddenly lurched toward Benny. Benny dashed to the side, dodging a deadly strike from the chief's combat knife. He wasn't fast enough to avoid getting clipped by Bingo's shoulder, and the impact caused his torso to shift backward as he tried to get grip with his feet, leading to an awkward half-slide to the ground. He scrambled to his feet before Bingo could take advantage of his belly-up position.

Despite his size, Bingo didn't move at the pace of a brick like Cloud did. He twirled around faster than his frame seemed to make possible, thrusting his knife at Benny before he was able to get proper footing. Panicked, Benny swung his own knife forward, narrowly parrying a mortal strike to his gut. The collision of the two combat knives nearly sent Benny sprawling again, but he used the momentum to clumsily jog away from Bingo toward the other side of the ring.

Bingo didn't give chase immediately. He stood still, arm outstretched with his knife pointed at Benny, breathing heavily from the effort. Even from his position a few meters away, Benny still had to look up to see Bingo's face atop his massive body. For once, Bingo wasn't wearing his deranged grin. His eyes burning, he was still shaking with rage and exertion. The respite was brief, and he made another mad dash at Benny.

Bingo raised his knife in the air as he ran, bringing it down to chop at Benny from above with his entire body's worth of force. It was a wild attack, clearly born more out of rage than tactical thinking. Benny shuffled quickly, if not elegantly, to his left, sidestepping Bingo's manic hack. As Bingo missed, he stumbled forward, hunched over.

Benny took the opportunity to try and land a hit of his own, but Bingo predicted the retaliation. As Benny's jagged combat knife flew rushed toward Bingo's exposed side, Bingo swung his arm back at an impossible speed, extending it fully, with his own knife sticking straight up in the air. The two blades connected with a loud clang. The impact sent sickening reverberations through Benny's arm, numbing his shoulder. Bingo violently heaved his arm back in. The jagged grooves of the two blades interlocked, causing Bingo's sudden motion to rip Benny's combat knife from his weakened grip.

Benny backpedaled, holding his right shoulder with his left hand, grimacing with pain and the sudden realization of his predicament. Bingo finally righted himself, brushing dust off of his gecko-skin chest piece. Despite his advantage, he still wouldn't allow himself a smile. Looking as angry as he'd ever seen him, Bingo knelt down and picked up Benny's knife, twirling it in his left hand. Now holding both blades, he jogged toward Benny – quick enough to prevent Benny from sidestepping away but slow enough to make a calculated attack.

Realizing he had to do something to take the momentum away from Bingo, Benny opted for surprise, sprinting full speed at Bingo. Bingo's eyes widened in surprise as Benny, weaponless, with his right arm hanging limp, raced directly toward him. Bingo raised both combat knives and broke into an all-out run himself. Right before Benny could be skewered, he threw his left leg out in front of him, slipping his right leg underneath it, sliding like he'd seen old-world baseball players do in ancient holotapes.

Bingo had no time to react. The force of Benny's dash sent him skidding across the sand, directly under Bingo. As he slid through the chief's massive legs, he grabbed an ankle with his still-functioning arm. Between his own forward momentum and Bingo's dash, his iron-clad grip on yanked a leg from under the hulking figure, sending him crashing to the ground. Benny jumped to his feet, gasping in pain as he instinctively put weight on his right hand trying to stand. Below him, Bingo lay limp, facedown on the ground.

Benny kicked the prone figure over, revealing the hilt of one of the combat knives sticking out of Bingo's chest in the middle of a rapidly expanding velvety patch. So much for the big honorable ritual – the jackass tripped and fell on his own goddamn knife. Finally, Bingo smiled.

"What the fuck do you have to be happy about?" Benny asked, gruffly, wiping sweat from his face.

Bingo let out a laugh. "I know what's going to happen to you."

"Well good thing you figured it out," Benny said, "Cuz' it looks like your time is up."

Despite Benny's gloating, the grin wouldn't leave Bingo's face. "Benny, you're hungry for power. You think this is going to be enough, but it won't be." He coughed, blood dribbling down his chin. "You won't be full until you're where I am now. That hunger for power – it's gonna kill you some day soon." Bingo started laughing with a deep, heavy chortle, causing him to cough uncontrollably. His whole body began convulsing, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Might be _your_ last laugh, but I'll have _the_ last laugh, you psychopath," Benny muttered, picking up the combat knife that wasn't buried in the former chief. He plunged it deep into Bingo's neck, cutting off his laughing, coughing, and convulsing in one fell swoop.

Benny, his face covered in blood and sweat, looked up at the crowd. He pointed at Victor. "We'll stay, baby."


	6. Chapter 6

Benny's engraved lighter clinked open loudly in the conspicuous silence. The small flame illuminated his features as he raised the device to the cigarette resting lazily on his lips. Even after seven long years, he still had a baby face, made only softer after being removed from the scorching Mojave sun. The only real signs of his age and world weariness were the first streaks of gray running through his slicked back hair.

He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as the familiar buzz of nicotine radiated throughout his brain, tightening his focus and lifting his mood. In a strange way, the familiarity of the buzz was still _un_ familiar. Finding a pack of cigarettes in an abandoned warehouse out in the wasteland was a rare treat most of his life. It was only in these past few years of prosperity that they became the foundation for a habit. He let out a thick puff of smoke. As the cloud collided with the window in front of him, it was sent back, bathing his face in therapeutic gray wisps.

Even through the smoky haze, Benny was transfixed by the dazzling light shining through the window of his suite. Although it was nearly two in the morning, the glowing neon of the city tricked his eyes into thinking it was midday. Brilliant shades of pink, yellow, orange, green, blue, and every other color the rainbow forgot about filled Benny's three-story window. From his vantage point in the presidential suite of the Tops Casino, it looked like someone had dumped a kaleidoscope's guts inside the walls of New Vegas.

He took another puff. The cars on the streets below were tiny, little dots of light in a sea of luminescence. They chugged along, full of tourists and merchants: the engine of the miraculous city in the desert. Above them, vertibirds flew low, above and among the buildings. It used to be that the NCR had the only birds in the sky. Then the rich assholes; Benny included of course. Then the tourists could pay for in-air sightseeing ventures. Now there were thousands of them zipping through the dense corridors of skyscrapers at any given time.

But on this particular evening, a vertibird, painted black as night, was flying much higher than the civilian birds were capable of. Benny watched as it flew toward the Tops. He could make out the two massive rotors perched on either side of the armored, beetle-like design of the aircraft as it approached his casino. A pair of massive rubber tires descended from it as it flew overhead, out of Benny's field of vision. It wouldn't be long now.

Benny looked up. There was only one thing to look up to from the top of his casino: the Lucky 38. It was an enormous, impossibly thin spire jutting into the sky, daring gravity to call its bluff. At the top, it exploded outward like a firework, covered in yellow and purple lights. It was Mr. House's home. And casino. And fortress. As much as Victor talked the guy up, House had never so much as set foot outside of it. He just sat up there, counting his millions, using his army to face down the Fiends, the Khans, the NCR, the Legion, anyone who dared challenge him. Just fucking sitting there, plotting.

"Boss, they're here," Swank's familiar voice called out from behind.

"I know," Benny said, taking another drag of his cigarette without bothering to turn around, "Tell them I'll be just another minute."

"Will do, boss," Swank replied.

It was partly a negotiation tactic. You show up on time to your own meeting, and you look like you don't have shit else to do. Even worse, you look like you're trying to impress someone. Not a good start. But it was also partly because he was enjoying smoking a cigarette from his veritable palace atop the Tops Casino. He had literally built it from the ground up with his Chairmen, as House insisted he rename the Boot Riders. He had outsmarted and outmaneuvered the Omertas and the White Gloves – House's other 'families' – to become the righthand man for New Vegas' autocrat. Sometimes it was good to just bask in the lights of his hard work. He didn't do that enough.

As he snapped out of his revelry, his eyes settled on his own reflection in the window. He'd traded in his gecko-skin armor for a black-and-white checkered suit, a shirt with loose tie, and smart white pants. His only visible connection to his old life was his nickel-plated pistol, Maria – named after a caravan guard that nearly killed him – holstered conspicuously on his waist. Behind him, Swank was still standing expectantly. He wore a striped suit of his own, and he'd cut his shaggy brown hair. It was shorter and styled with gel so that it was raised above his head, forming a blocky frame around his attractive face.

"Alright, let's get going," Benny said, pocketing his lighter and turning around to his lavishly decorated suite. Bathed in the light of the city, it was a beautiful room with couches, lamps, a pool table, and an ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He paused briefly, smashing his cigarette into a milky green ashtray. Swank led him through a pair of double doors and down a long red-carpeted hallway.

At the end of the hallway, he pushed open another set of double doors, revealing a conference room with a long, sleek table and office chairs. At the far end of the table, a fair-skinned woman with dark hair and sharp features sat stock-still, immediately locking eyes with Benny. Clad in NCR fatigues, flanked by two troopers with service rifles, she looked out of place in the glossy finish of the Tops conference room.

"You're late," she said matter-of-factly, venom in her voice.

Benny tilted his head, perplexed. "And you're not Ambassador Crocker," he replied, "I think there's been some kind of mistake."

"You don't just get a sit-down meeting with the Ambassador that easily," she said with a contemptuous laugh. "I'm Captain Marie Pappas of the NCR."

"The name's Benny. And why would you tell me I was meeting with Crocker then?" Benny asked, grimacing, trying to keep his rapidly boiling temper under control.

"Look, we said you would get an _audience_ with the Ambassador. You will give your offer to me, and I will give it to Crocker. That's effectively giving you an audience," Pappas explained, her patience clearly tiring. "This meeting never happened, and it wouldn't make much sense for the NCR's highest-ranking official on the Strip to attend a nonexistent," she paused, looking anxiously in both directions before continuing, "potentially _subversive_ little meet and greet."

Classic fucking NCR bureaucracy. A goddamn captain. What a joke.

"Well, let's get this started then. Thank you so much for agreeing to hear what we have to say," Benny began anew, an earnest-looking smile on his face camouflaging a simmering rage. Finally moving from the doorway, Benny took his chair across from Pappas, Swank quietly closing the door behind him.

"Well, let's hear it then," Pappas demanded, betraying her familiarity with orders, rather than diplomatic meetings.

Benny began unphased. "I won't beat around the bush. The fact that we're both in this room together is already grounds for death by securitron, so there's no point wasting time."

Benny couldn't be certain, but he thought he saw Pappas roll her eyes from across the table.

"You want House out. The NCR has been here for years, and you haven't done shit, baby. House wants his little kingdom all to himself, and he will continue to stonewall you from making any political progress."

"Assuming your little Machiavellian breakdown is true, what's your point?" Pappas asked, sounding less like she was curious and more like she expected Benny not to have an answer.

"Well, that's where I come in," Benny replied, brushing past her condescension, "I'm the second most powerful person in New Vegas, but I don't play second fiddle – not for long at least. Help me seize control of Vegas, and we both win. I don't have to be House's deputy anymore, and you have a much more amenable partner running the Strip. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I have a plan to do just that, and I need your help."

"Well, what's the plan?"

Benny leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands clasped together – his pitch was well-practiced. "This is all my cards on the table. I wanna' play straight with you because I want us to trust each other because – make no mistake – I'm talking about a coup, ya dig."

Pappas leaned back in her chair and nodded, still looking skeptical.

"The trick here is taking control of House. His strength is that his army of robots answers to him and him alone. That means that he can govern as he pleases by sheer will, without regard to what anyone else wants. However, that strength is also a vulnerability. In other words, you don't need a popular revolt against House. You put a gun to his head, and suddenly you've got your own personal army. The only problem is that you've got to get _through_ that personal army first. So my plan is to leave House vulnerable and then take him hostage."

"The plan has three phases. In the first phase, we trick House into thinking there's an emergency situation. Basically, we have some Khans and some Fiends positioned in Freeside, just outside the city walls – I've got a few contacts in the Khans, and the Khans have contacts with the Fiends. In the middle of the night, we'll have the Khans up on rooftops, and they'll set off some dynamite and toss a bunch of bottlecap mines clustered together with Wonderglue at the securitrons guarding the Strip. As they're doing this, we'll have a bunch of drugged up Fiends charge the wall in Legion armor – me and by boys have a set or two of the real deal, and the rest can use leather armor spray-painted red. At this point, the noise from the dynamite and the magnified bottlecap charges are going to make the securitrons think they're getting hit with mortar fire. Then, when they see a bunch of fanatics charging them dressed like Caesar's boys, they're going to think the Legion is staging a full-on invasion of New Vegas. Once House gets word, he's going to send everything he's got to fortify the gate."

"Phase two is where I need your help. To help convince House of the scam, we need NCR brass over at Hoover Dam to start spamming the radio with reports that the Legion camp at Fortification Hill is abandoned. This will convince House that the Legion has committed their forces in earnest and that he's gotta do the same. Now, the ruse won't last forever. I can probably get about a hundred or so Khans and Fiends, but House has – by our count – well over ten thousand securitrons. Basically, this means that after the first few loud bangs and dead junkies get cleared out, we won't have long before House figures out what's up. You'll need to send all the NCR forces in the city to 'help' the securitrons out at the gate. In reality, you'll take up positions behind them so that once House realizes what's happening, you can hold them off long enough for phase three."

"That's where I come in. In addition to a limited stock of legion armor, my boys and I have also come into the possession of a small supply of stealth boys. With House's main forces on the edge of the city and a wall of NCR between them and us, myself and a group of my best Chairmen will sneak into the now-defenseless Lucky 38 and make our way to the top. Once we reach House, we'll hold him hostage and effectively gain control over the entire force of securitrons, freeing New Vegas from his grip."

Benny, breathless from his lengthy proposal, stretched his arms out with his palms up. "Any questions?"

Pappas was silent for a few moments, looking deep in thought, as she tried to analyze everything Benny had just thrown at her. "Well, for starters," she began with a frown, "Who the fuck are you?"

"What?" Benny grunted, eyebrows raised.

"Well, your whole theory is that the NCR can't get anywhere dealing with House running New Vegas, but your plan just ends with _you_ running New Vegas. And I don't know who the fuck you are, so how is that any better for us?" Pappas asked.

Benny smiled. "I guess it is a gamble, but I can give you my word that if you help me out, there will be a contingent of securitrons to cover your flank when the Legion makes another offensive for the Dam."

"That's what you can offer us? Your word?" Pappas said.

"I've got no reason to lie to you," Benny replied, "The fake Legion attack on the Strip is a good trick because that's a realistic scenario. I want to eradicate those psychos just as badly as the NCR. And more NCR presence in the Mojave means more security for New Vegas and its caravan routes, so I'll have every incentive to cooperate with you, baby. We all win here."

Pappas stood up, immediately assuming the straight-backed posture of a career soldier. "I'll pass on your message to Crocker – you've got 'my word,' I guess you could say. But, I'll be honest with you – Benny is it? – I'll be honest with you, Benny, I'm not so sure we should've taken this meeting. Your 'plan' hinges on a hundred druggies charging into heavily armed securitrons and you and a couple of your thugs managing to infiltrate the most fortified structure in the Mojave after Hoover Dam. On that threadbare chance of success, you want the New California Republic to rip apart a half-decade-old alliance. And, even then, assuming your little scheme works, the best you can offer the NCR is a _promise_ that you'll be a better partner to us. That's too many dominoes that have to fall the right way for my liking, but, like I said, Crocker will be briefed."

Benny stood up and extended his hand across the table. "I appreciate your time," he said curtly. This wasn't a relationship he could afford to ruin, so he would swallow his pride for now.

Pappas shook his hand wordlessly. On cue, Swank opened the door, and Pappas and her two guards left for their Vertibird.


	7. Chapter 7

"Fuck NCR," Benny hissed over the low hum of the elevator as it zoomed downward.

"She was a nightmare, but Crocker might feel different. I wouldn't put too much stock into her opinion," Swank said weakly.

"Pretending like she couldn't even remember my fucking name, I can't even believe this. I run the biggest casino in the city, I make more moves in a day than those bureaucrats make in a goddamn year, baby, and that's how they treat me?" Benny fumed, "She's not telling shit to Crocker. They sent someone to placate me – it's clear they don't have any real interest."

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Benny and Swank walked onto a low balcony overlooking a large, dimly lit hall full of card tables, heavily armed Chairmen, and drunk tourists. The air was filled with the sound of plastic chips clapping together and the cartoonish whirring of slot machines. Even at this late hour – _because_ of this late hour – the floor was covered in people.

"Look, we knew this one was a longshot, but it was one meeting. The NCR's not the only gig in town," Swank responded in a hushed tone, just barely over the dull roar of activity on the casino floor.

"Oh, you know that's not fucking true," Benny countered, "We're not gonna work with the Legion. The Khans are still shitting themselves from the last time Victor paid them a visit. It's not worth wasting our time trying to parlay with a bunch of idiots running their own prison. And besides the Legion, the Khans, and the Powder Gangers, nobody has the numbers of the firepower to be of any real help to us."

Swank shrugged. "Well shit then, why don't we just give it up, Benny?"

"Give it up? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You said it yourself in the meeting – you're the second most powerful person in New Vegas. You run the biggest casino on the Strip, you have more caps than you know what to do with, and we're not running around in the desert throwing pointy sticks at people anymore. It's like you always told Bingo what you wanted; you're leading something that people believe in, that's growing, that's worth being a part of. Why can't that be enough?"

"You've got to be kidding me," Benny laughed sardonically.

"I'm not."

"Then what's the goddamn point?" Bingo said, raising his arms in exasperation, "You think I've plotted, backstabbed, and killed all these years just so I could have 'enough?' I'd rather jump off the roof of the Tops before I accept second place."

Swank sighed, putting his hand on Benny's shoulder. "Listen to yourself, Benny. Don't be a prisoner to your own ambition. There's more to life than being on top."

"You're wrong," Benny said, yanking his arm away, "And I don't need you questioning me like I'm in over my fucking head."

"What, you just want another Cloud? A fucking yes man telling you you're always right even when you're wrong?" Swank spat, his voice rising. "It's not just about you. I – we," he said gesturing to the casino floor, "have lives here. You may want to put everything on the line, but we have something to lose now."

"Oh, so I'm Bingo now? Fuck you," Benny said coldly, walking away.

He walked along the balcony, running his hand along the banister. He grabbed a half-empty glass of something – so long as it was alcohol it would do. His face was still flushed, heated from the argument, but he already felt regret. He had a sneaking suspicion that Swank just received the brunt of his frustration from the NCR meeting,.

 _Benny, you're hungry for power. You think this is going to be enough, but it won't be. You won't be full until you're where I am now. That hunger for power – it's gonna kill you some day soon._

Bingo's last words played through his mind for what felt like the millionth time. As he descended onto the casino floor, he downed whatever was in the glass, wincing as the liquid burned his throat. That wasn't going to be enough. He headed for the door, into the city's welcome embrace.

"Hey boss, where ya headed? You need a security detail?" Tommy yelled, spotting him with his one good eye from across the room.

"I'll be back later," Benny replied without looking, dodging the question.

He sped through the lobby, past the gaggle of Chairmen patting down patrons. He walked into the street, and the chill of the desert night pleasantly cooled his flustered face. Cars zoomed by, weaving around clusters of drunk sightseers. A pair of patrolling NCR troopers walked by in fatigues, guns hanging limply by their hips, prompting a frown from Benny. A securitron closely followed on its single treaded tire, a cartoonishly gruff police officer displayed on its screen. Permeating everything were the dazzling neon lights of the casinos, bathing the city in brilliant luminescence. It was impossible to get used to. The rest of the wasteland was shrouded in darkness or lit by dim gas lamps or weak battery-powered lights. As far as Benny knew, there was nowhere else like this in the world.

"Hey good lookin'," a voice rang out, smooth as a calm river. To his right, a woman approached, running her hand down his arm. "Looking to have a good time tonight?" she giggled.

"If only you were so lucky," Benny snarked, pulling away.

He meandered in no particular direction and with no destination in mind. The city would just pull him somewhere – it was inevitable in a place like New Vegas. The smells changed quicker than the scenery: from the mouthwatering aromas of street vendors hawking meat pies and noodles to urine in an alleyway to the pristine smell of leather furniture radiating from an open lounge.

"Hey whatta' ya call a radroach on a surfboard," a street comedian called out, "A _totally rad_ roach!" Benny ignored him, not bothering to stop. "Come on that's high quality comedy! It's gotta' be worth a few caps, man!"

Benny lit a cigarette, taking heavy, splendid drags. There was nothing more therapeutic than a walk through the city at night with a cigarette, even if it meant putting up with prostitutes and shitty jokes. Trying to avoid the crowds, he turned down an alley and passed by a group of men in disheveled pinstripe suits, smoking something other than cigarettes by the smell of it and laughing loudly. Apparently the Omertas were shifty as fuck _and_ didn't own an iron.

The brilliant lights loomed brighter behind him than in front of him as he continued down the alley, crossing progressively less and less radiant streets. Eventually, he found himself at 'the wall.' Sheet metal, chain link and barbed wire, all held together by concrete, loomed over him. For all his fancy technology, House still relied on an ancient technique to protect his city: pile a bunch of shit between you and everyone else.

He walked along the rough border. He often found himself here; it was one of the only places he could be alone in the city without holing up in his suite. Apart from the main boulevard, House wouldn't allow buildings or roads in the immediate vicinity of the wall for security reasons, so there was nothing for the tourists to soak in. It was just him and the occasional securitron patrol.

He ambled along deep in thought, letting the nicotine sharpen his mind. Swank was wrong in the broad sense – there was only one direction for him to go and that was up. It had always been that way, and it would be that way until he was running New Vegas. But Swank was right in the more narrow sense.

 _That hunger for power – it's gonna kill you some day soon._

There was a long list of times in which he acted rashly in pursuit of power: openly defying Bingo only to be beaten to a pulp, murdering Cloud, challenging the chief to a knife fight and nearly paying for it with his life. Even showing his hand to the NCR was reckless. If House caught wind of the high-profile meeting, they would certainly all be dead.

But, even if Swank was right that Benny could play too riskily, there was no way that he could duck out of the game altogether. After all, Bingo's dad would've been happy as a small gang of raiders, Bingo would've been happy remaining a nomadic tribe, and now Swank would be happy staying a Family in New Vegas. Although Swank accused him of acting like Bingo, it was _Swank_ that had the old chief's mindset. The moment that you get satisfied with where you are is the moment you start sliding backwards.

"Please be advised that you are exiting the Strip. We hope to see you again soon." The securitron's robotic voice interrupted Benny's train of thoughts. The massive gate loomed in front of him, and he hadn't even realized. Well shit, the night was still young.

"Thanks," Benny replied, as the securitron pressed a button, swinging the gate outward.

As he walked out, the change was immediate. First, there was the darkness. In front of him, bare bulbs, the remnants of street lamps, failed to light the sidewalks. The dim lights emanating from the buildings were dulled by boards and bars covering the windows. The street was neither paved nor unpaved – weeds sprouted through chunks of asphalt between the sidewalks. Everything was silent. The streets were completely abandoned at this time of night both because the atmosphere was tamer than the drunken circus of the Strip and for fear of the criminals roaming the roads. In a word, it was Freeside.

It wasn't Benny's first time in the slum outside the city's walls, but he had veered far from his normal walking route. Cotton-mouthed from smoking and plagued by the memories of the meeting with Pappas and the argument with Swank, he needed a drink now more than ever, so he pressed on. As he walked down the barren avenue, he sensed movement on his right from the corner of his eye.

"Hey fancy pants," a muffled voice taunted from behind a bandana, sending ice down Benny's spine. "How 'bout ya come down this way? I got somethin' to show you," the figure gestured toward a narrow alleyway.

"Fuck off," Benny replied tersely.

"Oh fancy pants, this ain't the big city. Ya fucked up," a new voice on his left jeered in a sing-song voice. He flicked his wrist, and Benny heard the unmistakable pang of a switchblade.

Benny raised his hands in a defensive gesture, "You know, since you boys don't look like you're from the Strip, I'll excuse your little misstep here. I'm actually Benny of New Vegas, leader of the Chairmen. If you walk away now, I can just forget that this whole incident ever happened. How does that sound to you, baby?"

"Benny of New Vegas? Who the fuck is that?" the goon on the left asked.

"He could be House himself for all I care. If he's leaving the Strip, he's got at least two thousand caps on him for the credit check. Let's get this over with before the securitrons see," the goon on the right responded, pulling out a blade of his own.

The pair started to converge on Benny from either side. Benny sighed and, quick as lighting, whipped out Maria. _Bang. Bang._ Maria was holstered again before the thugs each fell with a loud thump in the otherwise deafening silence of the abandoned street.

He took a drag from his cigarette. "Do you seriously not know who the fuck I am?" he asked to no one in particular. "I need this fuckin' drink."


	8. Chapter 8

"Welcum tooda Atomic Wrangler! Go righ fru," an obscenely drunk bouncer slurred a little too loudly, nearly falling over as he gestured into the casino.

"Thanks," Benny replied, wincing from the potent smell of whiskey on the man's breath. This place would clearly do the trick.

He was still a little shaken from the encounter with the thugs. He wasn't bothered by any moral qualms, and beyond that, he was psychopathic –not in the derogative, evil sense of the word that would associate him with sadists like Bingo, but in the literal, clinical sense. He didn't feel empathy. He had read somewhere that it was a genetic thing, but he was pretty sure the Wasteland just stripped the compassion out of most people. Nonetheless, he was still shaken – even without empathy, he still felt fear and still received adrenaline like anyone else, and he had just received a huge dose of both.

As he entered the Atomic Wrangler, he was immediately hit with the overwhelming aroma of cheap liquor and body odor. Housed inside a rundown building riddled with broken windows and a tacky sign, the casino was nothing like those of the Strip. The inside was dimly lit and full of heavily worn furniture. It was crowded, and swing music played in the background, but it wasn't a madhouse. Everything, including the patrons, was covered in a layer of grime and dust. Nevertheless, it had its charm. Most importantly, it had a long bar with two attentive servers. But it was also quaint in a way that could only be appreciated by someone who had a taste for the big city life: the filth gave the place a kind of character that was lacking from the antiseptic cleanliness of the plush Vegas scene, and it was filled with locals, not a bunch of drunk NCR assholes looking for a crazy weekend.

"You gonna' buy a drink or just stand there like a fresh NCR trooper in a fight?" a sharply dressed woman called out from behind the counter with a frown.

"I'll buy a drink," Benny pulled up a stool at the bar with a laugh, "A double whiskey, no rocks."

"You got it." She slid Benny a tall, skinny glass of brown liquid. He took a tentative sip and then downed the whole glass

"Another, thanks," he said, pulling a handful of caps out of his jacket. The bartender poured another glass, her frown long gone as the caps jingled onto the counter.

"So what was it?" a gravelly voice asked.

Hand on his glass, Benny glanced to his right. A ghoul with a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and a popped collar sat on the barstool next to him, her zombie-like features looking expectantly at him.

"What was what?" he replied.

"What was it that fucked your day up?"

"Excuse me," he said, puzzled.

"You're in an unfamiliar bar by yourself, loading up on liquor. Something fucked your day up," the ghoul explained.

"Look man, you don't –"

"I'm a woman," the ghoul interjected.

"Oh. Shit. Well look, I'm not looking for a therapist. I just want to sit and enjoy my drink, lady," he said flatly.

"Oh honey, I'm no therapist and I'm _certainly_ no lady. Just makin' some conversation with a fellow drinker," she said coarsely.

Benny sighed, realizing he was once again taking his frustration out on the wrong person. "Sorry, maybe we can start over," he glanced at a small mountain of glasses in front of the ghoul, "What fucked _your_ day up?"

She let out a roaring laugh, "Look at me: I'm a ghoul. All my days are fucked up."

Benny snickered, "You must be keeping this place afloat then." He downed his second double. "Can I get another one of these?" he asked the bartender, who shot him a thumbs up and slid him another glass.

"I'm not bad for business," she laughed, "But, to be fair, ghouls' entire bodies have been irradiated, resulting in much higher cellular density. As I understand it – and I'm not a doctor – we live longer because that cellular density makes our bodily processes more efficient, which includes the processing of alcohol, so we have to drink way more than ordinary humans to get drunk."

"For not being a doctor, you seem to know quite a bit about all of this."

She shrugged. "That's kind of what fucked my day up, I guess. I just started a new guarding a bunch of doctors and researchers. I've picked up some interesting shit like that, but the sons of bitches want me to stop drinking."

"Sounds like bullshit to me," Benny said, gesturing to the bartender for another double.

"Well now I've shared my shit. It's your turn," the ghoul prompted.

Benny smiled, his mind tingling with the sweet buzz of alcohol. "I had an argument with my best friend today," he began, "Over something dumb."

"Ah, what was it about?"

Benny's eyes were starting to glaze over. In a motion clearly induced by alcohol, he stroked his chin exaggeratedly, trying to look thoughtful. "I'm working on a big project, and I'm having a lot of trouble finding partners to work with. My buddy thinks I should give the whole thing up altogether, but it's basically my life's work."

"Could you be a little more vague? I think that was too specific," the ghoul snarked.

He snorted loudly, "Well, baby, it's sensitive stuff. Not sure how much I should say."

"Baby? Look, if you're hitting on a ghoul, I think it's time for me to cut you off."

Benny grinned, "No, it's just a mannerism. A – A – A schtick," he stammered, "I don't fucking know. Just a thing I say."

She laughed. "I'm just playing with you. But seriously what's this project you're working on?" she asked.

Benny squinted his eyes, clearly intoxicated, "I'm not sure I should share."

"Oh come on, we're friends here," she teased.

"I don't even know your name for crying out loud," Benny responded.

The ghoul stuck her hand out, with a grin. "The name's Beatrix Russell." He returned the gesture, briefly shaking her rough leathery hand.

"I'm Benny," he replied, downing his glass, "Alright, let's go to the room in the back. It seems a little less crowded. But first, let me grab another pair of doubles."

The pair left the bar after Benny grabbed his new drinks. The back hall housed the casino's games, but, unlike the Strip establishments, it was mostly barren at this hour. A pair of drunken lovebirds chatting in the corner were the only other souls in the room. It seemed that most of the locals came here to burn their money drinking, not playing games.

"Okay, Mr. Mystery, this is quite a build-up, so this better be a pretty juicy secret," Beatrix teased.

"Well, I don't know about juicy, but it's certainly _seditious_ ," Benny slurred, making an extravagant gesture, "I want to run New Vegas."

The ghoul snorted, the gruff noise of her laughter simultaneously emitting a slight whistle through her tattered flesh. "How drunk are you?"

Benny's eyes narrowed. "Look, baby, I know it sounds silly, but it's doable. This is what the whole fight was about today. I just need somebody to work with. The NCR is fuckin' waist deep in their own bullshit. The Legion is . . . the Legion. The Khans and the Powder Gangers are a bunch of losers. So, I'm stuck for the moment, but I'll think of something."

Beatrix was no longer laughing. "Wait, you're serious? Who exactly are you? If you're not involved with one of those groups, how exactly do you think there's any chance of _you_ taking over Vegas?"

"I'm leader of the Chairmen – I run the Tops."

"Holy shit, you're _that_ Benny?"

"Jeez, thank you for fucking knowing that," he gasped.

"Who the fuck doesn't know the leaders of the Three Families?" she shrugged.

"Right?" he exclaimed too loudly, spilling his drink. The lovebirds in the opposite corner of the room turned to look.

"Okay, drunkie, we're getting distracted," Beatrix said, "So is this just like a daydream or are you actually talking about a plot to overthrow the government?"

"It's not a daydream," Benny whispered, cognizant enough, even in his drunken state, to recognize that they weren't alone in the room, "But I am sort of stalled. I've tried to work out deals with the other factions, but nothing has come of it, and nobody else has the numbers for what I want to do."

"Well, why do you need numbers on your side?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, House has an army of killer robots, so I was thinking I needed a way to deal with that little problem," he replied sarcastically.

Beatrix ignored the tease, furrowing her brows and looking down in thought for a moment. "Have you considered a more technical approach?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, shooting back another whiskey double.

"Look, those doctors I work for, they're part of a group called the Followers of the Apocalypse. You heard of 'em?"

"Aren't they a bunch of commies?" Benny asked.

Beatrix rolled her eyes. "They have a mixed reputation, I'll admit. But, outside of a Brotherhood stronghold, you won't find more technological expertise anywhere in the Wasteland. And rumor has it that they also aren't fans of House. Maybe you could team up with them?"

Benny paused and downed his last glass. "Look, Beatrix, I appreciate the offer, but I'm talking about doing something that involves getting your hands dirty, ya dig? I'll admit that I don't know everything about the Followers, but I know they're a bunch of peace-loving hippies, and I'm talking about a violent coup," he began, slurring heavily, "I mean shit, how would we get along? They don't even want you drinking, and I'm drunk as shit right now. Hell, I fuckin' killed two people just on the walk over. You think they would work with a guy like me?"

The ghoul unexpectedly laughed, making the strange whistling noise. "It takes one to know one, and I definitely know you're a piece of shit, Benny, but I wouldn't sell the Followers of the Apocalypse short. They may not like you, but they have an agenda, just like everyone else, even if it's a more altruistic agenda. And, just like everyone else, they will make sacrifices and work with people they don't like to get their way. I can't promise you anything, but you say you've met with these other groups; just give them a meeting and hear them out. You might be surprised."

Benny sat silently for a moment, eyes drooping in the dimly lit room, "Okay, I'll strike a deal with you. I'll meet with them, but you've gotta help me get back to the Strip."

Beatrix bared her teeth in a ghoulish grin. "Deal."


	9. Chapter 9

"Boss, you gotta' wake up."

Benny awoke with a startle. Looking around, he was relieved to see the familiar layout of his suite in the Tops. However, relief immediately gave way to regret as a headache panged the front of his head with laser focus and his stomach threatened to turn inside out. He sat up slowly, digging his knuckles into his temples. Looking down, he realized he was still fully dressed.

"Benny, you got a meeting in 5," Swank said from beside his bed.

"A meeting? I didn't schedule anything for this morning," Benny said groggily, running his hands through his hair.

"Yeah, that's what I thought until you staggered in with your new ghoul friend in the wee hours of the morning," Swank grumbled, "What is this meeting about anyways?"

"Oh fuck, I thought that was a dream," Benny said, burying his head in his hands, "I got drunk and started chatting with a Freesider about . . . our little problem with Mr. House."

"Now you remember to speak in fuckin' code," Swank muttered.

"Anyways," Benny continued, "Long story short, I'm meeting with a representative from the Followers of the Apocalypse. The ghoul said they might be able to help us."

"Jesus Christ, Benny, you're acting like a loose cannon. Talking about overthrowing House in a public place? Getting so drunk that a complete stranger has to get you home? Meeting with these anarchists? What the hell were you thinking?"

Benny sighed, swallowing his pride. Swank had a point, and he couldn't afford for his number two to be pissed at him with everything else going to badly. "You're right, Swank. I drank way too much last night and made a mistake. I'm gonna' work on it."

Swank nodded. "Well clean yourself up. You look like shit."

* * *

Benny walked into his conference room after quickly pressing his suit and slicking back his hair, now looking considerably better than he felt. Swank closed the door behind him.

At the end of the spotless table sat a pale woman wearing a neatly pressed laboratory coat over a disheveled gray shirt. She had glasses and messy dark hair trimmed short, with the slightest gap between her front teeth. She was beautiful in an overworked-intellectual kind of way.

Benny approached her, extending his hand, smiling to mask his ongoing misery from the night before. "Good morning. The name's Benny. You must be Julie Farkas."

"Um, no," she replied coyly, shaking Benny's hand, "My name is Emily, Emily Ortal."

"Oh, I am so sorry! Am I mixing up names? I thought your associate last night mentioned that the leader of the Followers of the Apocalypse was a certain Julie Farkas."

"Yes, Julie is our leader. Julie sent me, Emily, our envoy on the Strip," she said slowly, as if expecting that Benny would have trouble understanding.

A flash of anger briefly covered Benny's face, quickly replaced by his usual calm smile as he regained his poker face. "Okay, well thank you for meeting with us. Normally, I start this meeting by pitching an idea. Unfortunately, given the short notice, I don't actually have –"

"You want to overthrow House, is that correct?" Emily interrupted.

"Well, yes, but –"

"Alright, I have a few ideas, but I need to get a few more data points – erm, I need to ask you a few questions."

Benny smiled. He didn't like being interrupted, but this was the first meeting where he wasn't the only one with any real interest in making progress. "Shoot then."

"You're a part of one of the Three Families, so is it true that House came to you when you were still part of a tribe in the desert?"

The memory of stabbing Bingo in the neck flashed through his mind. "Yes," he replied curtly.

"How did House make contact with you? Did you see him?" she asked.

"Of course not," he snorted, "He sent his securitrons to negotiate with us."

"Was it one of the normal securitrons or a different one? Any chance it was a cowboy-looking one named Victor?"

"Actually, yes it was," Benny replied, raising his eyebrows.

"Great," Emily responded, as if Benny was merely confirming what she already knew, "Is there any chance that you saw Victor on multiple securitrons at once, or did he show up on different securitrons ever?"

Benny rubbed the back of his head, thinking. "He never showed up on multiple securitrons at the same time, but the first time we saw him, we destroyed the bot, so when he showed up the next day, he must've been on a different securitron."

"Excellent," Emily replied, looking down at the conference table in thought.

"Okay, now I've answered all of your questions," Benny said, "Your turn. What are you getting at here?"

"Somehow the securitrons are all able to communicate with one another; for example, they are able to call for backup anywhere on the Strip, and some of House's little characters – namely, Victor – are able to appear on any securitron at seemingly any time," she answered, "These observations both seem to confirm a theory I've had for some time now that the securitrons are run from a central hub on House's network. This would allow disparately located securitrons to react to the audio and visual inputs of other machines. Moreover, it would allow Victor to bounce around multiple machines and report back to House without having his securitron host physically enter the Lucky 38."

"Interesting as this all is, Emily, I fail to see how this helps get to an overthrow," Benny replied.

"Well, I will be straightforward with you," she said matter-of-factly, "I am not interested in overthrowing House – or, at least, that is not my primary goal. However, House has lived for more than 200 years, so the Followers are keenly interested in accessing the trove of medical data he must possess in order to have accomplished such a feat. We believe that one route to accomplish this is to hack into his network, and, as I have already made clear, I think his network can be accessed via his securitrons."

"Still not seeing how this helps me, baby," Benny repeated.

" _Well_ , if I'm able to access his network, then it may be possible to either gain control over House's securitrons _or_ gain information that will assist us in doing so. I believe either of these options will assist you in your objective."

"Holy shit, we can take control of the securitrons? Well, yeah, I think that would be a pretty big fuckin' help," Benny grinned, "How do we gain access to the network using his securitrons?"

"Before I get into the details I would just ask that you remember that this is a _deal_. You will only receive this assistance in exchange for access to House's medical research," Emily lectured.

"Of course, of course. So what do we do?"

"Alright," Emily began, "I'll need you to disable a securitron without destroying it. In theory, I should be able to access the robot's wireless communications systems and hack into House's network."

"How am I supposed to disable a securitron without destroying it?"

Emily chuckled. "Look, if I knew how to do that, then there would have been no point in taking this meeting. I can do the technical stuff, but _you_ have to handle the violent side of things."

"Alright, fair enough," Benny laughed, rising to his feet, "I think I can handle that. Maybe we can meet up again tomorrow and discuss further."

"I'd like that," Emily replied, leaving her chair.

"Swank can show you the way out."

* * *

"So how do you expect us to disable this thing?" Swank asked, frowning.

Benny lounged on a sofa facing his massive window, sunglasses on and beer in hand. Nursing the hangover was going to be an all-day affair. "You know the city really loses its charm during the day," he said, gazing out of the window, "You can't see any of the lights. Just a bunch of big boring buildings filled with people trying to get over the night before."

"You're ducking the question, Benny."

"I ain't duckin' shit. I'm just thinking," Benny countered.

"Look, if Emily's right that these things can transmit data back to House, that means we've got a big problem," Swank said, "Even assuming that you come up with some trick to disable a securitron without destroying it in the process, you'll still be fucked because the moment the thing sees you, your face is gonna' flash right through House's network. Then, he'll know you're plotting against him, and we'll have a wave of killer robots storming through the Tops within the hour."

Benny massaged his temples, eyes closed despite the beautiful panoramic view of the Strip. "Alright, go grab Tommy and a little more muscle – also we're gonna' need a car. And when you get a second, tell Emily the meeting will be late tomorrow night. Things are about to get hot."

"Yeah, sure thing, boss," Swank replied, "What's the plan?"

"I'll talk to you about it later, but you gotta' sit this one out. You've been putting up with enough of my bullshit lately, and we still actually have a casino to run here."

Swank's raised his eyebrows in surprise but quickly regained his composure. "Sure, Benny, I'll get everything ready and look after things here."

* * *

"And so long as we avoid the notice of any securitrons on the way back, we should be set," Benny finished as he and Tommy jumped into the front seat of a refurbished pickup truck. Two other heavily-armed Chairmen clambered onto the back, looking out of place sitting in the bed of the truck in their freshly-pressed suits.

"You sure you wanna' go through with this? I think it'll work, but –"

"I've made my decision," Benny interjected curtly over the coughing of the engine as he turned the keys in the ignition, "You got the package?"

Tommy's good eye glanced down at a small brown box near his feet, his other eye covered by an eyepatch – an enduring gift from the late Bingo. "Yeah, boss. Sent a runner to pick it up from some outfit in Freeside – Mick & Ralph's or something. Won't be able to trace it to us."

"Great, then we're all set."

Tommy pursed his lips, declining to say anything further. Benny flipped the headlights on, illuminating the dark parking garage, a structure created when they dug out Vault 21 to lay the foundation for the Tops. The truck lurched forward as Benny pressed down on the accelerator, making the nuclear engine purr. Wasteland trucks were normally equipped with standard combustion engines, but House had buffed up a few to help with the reconstruction of Vegas some years back.

When they reached the exit, the vehicle tripped the sensor, and the gate loudly clanked open. As they pulled out, the plan raced through Benny's mind, causing adrenaline to rush through his body. His limbs tingled, and the road came into hyper focus. With the sun setting, the traffic was already starting to pick up and the sidewalks were becoming congested with early partygoers.

He turned off the main drag. The Strip was much too crowded for what he had in mind. He drove until he reached the near-outskirts of the city. The wall was visible in the distance, but he didn't take the truck all the way to the abandoned edge. Small groups of people were starting the nightly pilgrimage to the city center for a night of debauchery. Securitrons patrolled the streets but in smaller numbers – most of the action was on either side of them now, at the wall gunning down Fiends or on the main drag breaking up barfights. Benny drove slowly, him and Tommy meticulously peering down the dark alleyways where the city's trash was piled high, sometimes forming mountains nearly as tall as the buildings themselves.

"There," Tommy said, pointing through his window. Down one of the alleys, a mother and a child were heading toward the Strip, probably going early to avoid the full depravity of the night.

"Perfect," Benny whispered, scanning for securitrons or other pedestrians. He grabbed a hockey mask from under his seat and slipped it on. "Game faces on, boys," he said sternly through the back window. Tommy and the other Chairmen followed suit, slipping on masks of their own.

"Let's go get the keys to the city."


	10. Chapter 10

The woman's head whipped around sharply at the sound of tires squealing. A pickup truck barreled toward her and her son through the narrow alleyway. The driver and passenger wore hockey masks over their faces, like something out of a cheap horror flick. The woman and the son rushed to get out of the way, but the truck's brakes squealed, lurching to a stop before putting them in danger of a collision. Before they could react, the hockey-masked goons were out of the truck. Two more materialized from the bed of the vehicle. The hair on the woman's arms stood up, and ice filled her veins.

"We're not here to hurt you, but we need some assistance," the driver of the truck said, his voice muffled from behind the mask. Dressed in a sharp checkered suit, he looked absurd in the deserted alleyway.

"I – I – I think you might have the wrong person," the woman stammered, pushing her son behind her.

The man reached into his waistband, revealing an ornately-designed, nickel-plated pistol. "No, we don't," he said. She could hear the grin in his voice without seeing it.

* * *

For a short while, everything sat in the precarious purple that demarcated the barrier between day and night. As the last sunlight was swept away by the velvety blue-black of darkness, the alleyway fell into true dusk. The neon lights of the Strip were too far away to reach this backwash of New Vegas. But this was no mere absence of light – an overwhelming silence penetrated the air. Most of the tourists had made their way into the city center by now, and those remaining wouldn't dare head down an abandoned alleyway to get there at this hour. And with the massive barrier between the city and the Mojave, not even wind gusts could sweep through and upset the stillness.

It was in this inky darkness and oppressive silence that the boy and the securitron arrived. The boy's small frame seemed impossibly small, juxtaposed by the hulking steel frame of the machine. A light on the securitron created an eerie cone of yellow in the dusk. The boy's quiet sniveling echoed loudly in the narrow alleyway.

"Please calm down sir, I am here to help," the securitron blared in a gruff monotone, causing the boy to cry even louder, "Where is your mother?"

The boy silently pointed to a dumpster. The securitron fixated its light on the dumpster and rolled over to it on its single treaded tire. It raised one of its noodle-like arms, clicking its three claws together. It clamped them around the handle on the dumpster and raised the lid. A loud crackle cut through the sound of the boy's sniffling, followed by a whoosh. Bolts of electricity radiated outward in a purple haze, completely encompassing the bulky securitron. The cartoonish police officer on the securitron's screen went fuzzy, then blank. Finally, the robot fell forward, awkwardly propped up by the dumpster.

The boy quickly ran over to the dumpster and peered inside. His face turned pale. He screamed as he heard the familiar screech of tires from the end of the alleyway. The pickup truck zoomed toward him in reverse, screeching to a stop just before reaching the dumpster. The two goons in the back jumped out and began shoving the machine onto the bed of the truck.

"Hurry it up, we don't have long," a voice yelled from the driver's seat.

"Boss, it's too heavy! We need some help," one of the goons grunted.

"Fuck, do I gotta' do everything myself?"

The man in the checkered suit emerged from the cabin of the truck and began shoving the securitron with the other two goons. With a loud groan and the earsplitting sound of metal screeching against metal, the trio managed to slide the machine onto the truck. The man in the checkered suit brushed himself off, smoothing his suit. The other two men scrambled onto the truck, unfolding a tarp. The man turned to the boy.

"Sorry kid," he said coldly, lighting a cigarette, "It's just business."

* * *

"Wait, you already have it?" Emily said giddily from the other side of the conference room.

"Oh yeah, baby," Benny replied, popping the cork from a bottle of champagne.

"But – but how?" she asked.

Benny laughed. "Like you said, you focus on the technical stuff. Me and the boys with guns will handle the violent side. Let's keep it that way for now."

"Fair enough," she replied, beaming, "Well, I cannot wait. Take me to it, and I can start hacking House's systems immediately."

"Woah, woah, woah," Benny said, raising his hands, "It has been _way way_ too long since I've had anything happen worth celebrating, so let's celebrate tonight. You can have your way with the machine tomorrow."

"Benny, I realize that I live in the Strip, but I am here for business. Celebrating is not really my –"

"Nonsense," he interrupted, handing her a glass of champagne, "Think of it as a business meeting. If we're going to work together on our little project, we need to get to know each other."

Emily sheepishly accepted the glass. "Well, one night off can't hurt I guess."

Benny downed his glass in response. "Look, we're not gonna' celebrate in a conference room. You wanna' head down to the gaming floor?"

"Sure," Emily mumbled, sipping her glass, as Swank opened the door, "By the way, what did you do before this?"

"What do you mean?" Benny asked, as they made their way toward the elevator.

"Before this," she said, throwing her arms up, "Running the Tops."

"Well, you already know what," Benny replied, "I was in a nomadic tribe. Where did that come from?"

"You said that you wanted to get to know each other better, so I am doing that," Emily reasoned, "But, I know you were in a tribe. What was it like?"

 _Bodies of Boot Riders and bighorners were strewn across the ground where Maria's grenade launcher had torn limbs from torsos. Bingo's foot dug into his stomach, forcing bile from his mouth. Cloud's skull crunched. He turned Bingo's body over. The smile on his face. The same smile he felt creeping onto his own face from time to time. "That hunger for power – it's gonna kill you some day soon."_

"Nothing too crazy. It was nice sleeping under the stars every night I guess. But gecko skin armor sure gets hot in the fuckin' desert," Benny laughed, quickly deflecting, "But you already know a lot about me 'cuz everyone knows about the Three Families. What about _you_?"

The elevators door slid closed behind Benny and Emily with a ding. "What would you like to know?" she asked.

"Well, first of all, how did you end up with an outfit like the Followers? No offense, but they have a little bit of a hippie vibe," he said.

She laughed. "Hippie vibe?"

The elevator dinged again, and the doors slid open to the Tops' hall of debauchery. They were buffeted with the sounds of whirring slots, screaming winners, and petulant losers. The pair walked to the bannister where Benny and Swank had their blowout only a few days earlier. "Eh, you know what I mean. Taking care of the poor is good and all, but they wanna' have resources split 'fairly' between everyone," he said, making air quotes with his fingers at the word fairly, "I mean they don't sound too different than the commies that started this whole goddamn mess."

"What's so wrong with wanting things to be fair?" she said defensively, "And what mess are you talking about?"

"The mess we're living in. The Great War. You guys sound like the Reds before they nuked the whole world. And look, I'm all for being fair, but the Followers of the Apocalypse want something _unnatural_. If you don't let people work their asses off for what they want, they'll start using guns instead of caps."

Emily ran her hand through her hair and sipped her champagne. "I didn't realize you wanted to have an ideological debate tonight," she chuckled, thinly veiling her irritation.

"We need more alcohol," he replied simply, walking down the stairs of the balcony.

"Where are you going?" she called out after him.

"VIP lounge," he answered, "You coming?"

* * *

Sitting in a dark corner of the casino behind pylons and velvet ropes, the pair browsed a drink menu. There was no music blaring through speakers in this room. A singer on the stage crooned about the Chairmen of yesterday.

 _Making camp for the night._

 _Must rest for the fight._

 _Of tomorrow._

 _Stars above our head._

 _Sand below us red._

 _The Mojave._

 _Wake in the morn'._

 _Allegiance we have sworn._

 _Boot Riders._

 _Boot Riders._

 _Boot Riders._

"So you seriously think that's what the war was about?" Emily asked, considerably more intoxicated than when the argument began.

"Yeah, of course I do!" Benny replied, holding a whiskey sans rocks, "The Americans wanted everyone to work hard and make their own way. The Reds thought that a stand-up guy who goes out, works himself to the bone, and creates an empire should make just as many caps as smalltime paper pusher!"

Emily laughed. "It was a war for power, Benny. Sure, they hid behind their ideologies, but nobody ends the world over an ideology. They end the world to get power. Some people are just monsters like that. And that's what the Followers are about – we don't want those people to ruin the world again. Yes, we believe that everyone should have food, water, and medicine, but our goal is to advance _humanity_ , not an economic theory."

"Monsters lusting for power, huh?" Benny asked, "So why work with me then?"

"We have a deal is why," she replied, "But I don't take you for a monster, Benny, even if you're ambitious. But, while we're on the topic, why _do_ you want to control New Vegas?"

Benny thought for a moment, "I want to unite the Mojave."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, right now, you've obviously got the NCR and Caesar trying to run things. But outside of them, there are tons of other little outfits: the Khans, the Powder Gangers, the Fiends, even the Brotherhood and the shut-ins at the airfield," he said.

"What's your point?" Emily asked.

"Well," Benny said, "I think if you get all those little outfits unified under one banner, then the Mojave would be able to hold its own. We could keep the NCR and the Legion out of here."

"How would you be able to get them all to unite?"

"The same way House got the Three Families to join up. Use the securitrons to parlay with the lesser factions. Bully them into joining up and Vegas becomes more powerful. Then, when we're even more powerful, parlay with bigger factions. You keep doing this until you leapfrog your way into a real fighting force."

"Do you really think you could keep a coalition together with the threat of force like that?" Emily asked skeptically.

"I honestly don't know," Benny shrugged, "But that's my working plan. Although, once I have an army of killer robots behind me, I might see the world differently."

"Fair enough," she replied, "Where did you learn about the old war and about capitalism and communism? As students of history, this is common knowledge among the Followers of the Apocalypse, but most other wastelanders are ignorant to the past."

Benny chuckled. "We have access to a lot of holotapes here. I know I'm just a tribal-turned-gangster to you, but if you want to stay ahead of your opponents, it helps to know a little bit about the world. How other people have fucked up or won big and all."

"Hmm, maybe you are more than a monster lusting for power," Emily laughed.

"I don't know about the monster part, but I won't argue with the _lust_ ," Benny winked, turning Emily's face bright red. "Waiter," Benny called out, flagging over a man with an apron, "Could we get two atomic cocktails?"

"Of course, Benny," he replied, jogging over to the bar.

"What's that?" Emily asked, quickly changing the subject.

"Oh, you've never had an atomic cocktail. Well, this will be a real treat. People on the Strip used to drink these while they watched atomic bomb tests out in the desert. There aren't many around these days," he explained. "Here they come," he said, handing her a drink from the waiter's tray.

The cocktail was housed in a cannister in remarkably good condition given its age. It was shaped like a missile and held a bright green liquid inside a glass cylinder. Etched on the cylinder was a logo shaped like a scientist's rendering of an atom with the words "atomic cocktail" scrawled in a neat font.

"To a _new_ New Vegas," he said, raising his glass. Emily smiled brightly and returned the gesture, clinking her missile-shaped glass against Benny's. They both took long swigs.

"So, you want to talk about this more in my suite?" Benny asked.

"I think I'd like that," Emily replied.


	11. Chapter 11

Emily softly stroked the curve of Benny's jawline. He felt a warm, tingling sensation rush through the top of his head and down his spine. Smiling, he looked into Emily's eyes, not yet covered by her thick glasses, and brushed a lock of her dark hair aside. He leaned forward and gently kissed her. After a long time, he pulled his mouth away but stayed close enough that their foreheads still touched.

"I had a good time last night," he whispered, trying to speak quietly enough to not shatter the moment.

Emily smiled and looked like she might say something, but she just closed her eyes.

Benny put his hands on her shoulders. "You know, you could say the same," Benny said nervously.

Emily giggled as her face turned red. "I had a good time too. But, you know," she paused, "I'm not like the girls in New Vegas."

"What do you mean?" Benny asked.

"I come from a small town and the Followers generally frown upon vices. I don't usually do this kind of thing."

"I don't really do this kind of thing much either. I'm usually makin' moves, and I don't like to have distractions."

Emily laughed. "Well I guess I can be your distraction and you can be my vice."

"No, that's not what I meant," Benny said, his face turning serious, "In my line of work, I don't get to spend much time talking about the things we talked about last night. People here would rather talk about the best way to skin a fiend than argue about history or economics. So, it was . . . refreshing. I'd like to do it again, dig?"

"Is that the big bad Benny of New Vegas, leader of the Chairmen showing _vulnerability_ ," Emily teased, contorting her face in mock surprise.

Benny frowned. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he responded in mock annoyance.

She laughed. "So what, I'm just an intellectual conversation then?"

Benny gently kissed her forehead and pulled away slowly, cradling her neck. "No. I like talking with you about that stuff, but what I really like is that you're someone who's willing to actually fucking do something. You don't know how many people I talked to before I met you who are just fine with the wasteland the way it is. But not you. You're willing to take action, do something that you believe in. It might not be the same thing as me but it's _something_. You're not a slave to the status quo, baby."

Emily pulled him back in, kissing him hard on the lips. "Is a prolonged monologue a part of your usual first date routine?" she joked.

They both laughed, and the laughing slowly morphed into kissing.

* * *

"How are things down on the thirteenth floor these days?" Benny asked, placing a folded napkin on his lap.

"Everything I could've asked for and more," Emily replied, referring to the suite and workshop Benny was loaning her on the thirteenth floor of the Tops.

"Good, and how is progress going with our . . . mutual friend?"

"Can I take your order madam?" a waiter dressed in a sharp suit and tie with a white apron asked Emily, cutting the conversation short. It was their fourth date, so Benny was trying to impress. He suggested a ritzy Strip restaurant where the cheapest meal ran for 600 caps. Located a few blocks away from the Lucky 38, the restaurant was on the top floor of a circular skyscraper, granting spectacular views of Mojave sunset. Benny had booked a table overlooking the windows to the west. The succulent smell of roasting meats and fresh produce, rarities in the wasteland, wafted from the kitchen.

"Can I get the brahmin steak and a glass of wine?" Emily answered with a question.

"Of course, ma'am. And you sir?"

"I'll take the yao guai and whiskey on the rocks," Benny replied. The waiter nodded and sped back to the kitchen.

"Yao guai? I've never had it before. Is it any good?" Emily asked.

"It tastes like shit," Benny laughed.

"Well then why did you order it?" Emily asked, giggling.

"You know what the words 'yao guai' actually mean?" Benny asked.

"Wait, does it mean something?"

"Oh yeah," Benny replied, leaning back in his chair, "It's Chinese and literally translates to 'demon.' The sons of bitches are easily the most ferocious predators in the wasteland. It's the closest you can get to eating the top of the food chain without becoming a cannibal. So, yeah, nobody eats yao guai for the taste, baby. You eat it for the power _._ "

Emily rolled her eyes. "I should've known you were getting us back to your favorite subject."

"What, fucking nature?" Benny grinned.

"You know what I'm talking about," Emily said, "Your weird little obsession with _power._ "

"Look, you didn't grow up wandering the wasteland with a pack of raiders. You didn't have it easy, but you had parents and a settlement to call home," Benny said, leaning back in his chair. He pulled out a cigarette and his freshly-polished, engraved lighter.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Emily asked, frowning and cocking her head.

Benny covered his face momentarily, fidgeting with his lighter. He took a deep breath, and the end of his cigarette glowed bright red. He exhaled a dense cloud of smoke. "I'm just used to dealing with monsters out there. And I don't mean yao gui or deathclaws. I mean assholes who will gun down entire settlements just for the hell of it. The only way to not be the prey out there is to sometimes be the predator."

"You're not out there anymore, Benny," Emily said softly. "You don't have to be like that anymore."

"I know," Benny replied taking another puff of smoke as he gazed out the window.

"You're more than just a _predator_ , you know that?," Emily sighed, putting her hand on Benny's arm. "You're special. You can be sweet and kind and smart. You work hard and you get things done. You take care of the people around you. I admire you, you know that, right?"

He tore his gaze away from the window, his eyes locking with Emily's. He smashed his cigarette into an ashtray, snuffing the red tip into a dull gray. He put his hand on hers. "I don't know how I got so far without you, baby," he said, in almost a whisper.

She smiled softly, showing only a sliver of her teeth. It was the most beautiful sight Benny had ever seen.

* * *

"I have successfully converted the securitron's data input-output into an interactive audio interface," Emily beamed.

"You know I love it when you talk technical to me, baby," Benny replied, wrapping his arm around her hip, "But I don't have a goddamn clue what you're saying."

Emily laughed and toggled a few switches in an exposed panel on the back of the robot. The screen crackled and a goofy, smiling face materialized. "Hello there!" a voice boomed out of the securitron's speaker.

"What the hell is this?" Benny snorted.

"Ask it something! I've installed an override that forces it to obey any verbal commands given to it."

"A regular yes man," Benny laughed, "Alright, what did House have for lunch today?"

"Thank you for asking," the securitron replied, its unyielding smile still on display, "Unfortunately, all files directly related to Robert House are stored under 'encryption level: alpha,' so I can't help you with that!"

"Remember what I told you," Emily lectured, "There are three different levels of encryption. I've already broken through the first band, but that's just basic surveillance chatter. The next band is security archives and long-term projects, but anything related to House himself is in the last band. It will be some time before I can crack that, which, unfortunately, is what I need if I'm going to get any medical information."

"I know, I know," Benny sighed, "Just jokin' around."

Emily pulled Benny in close, kissing him hard on the lips. "Don't worry. We'll get there. It's only been a few weeks."

* * *

Benny gazed out of the window, taking a deep drag from a newly lit cigarette. As usual, his gaze was drawn to the Lucky 38, looming higher above him than ever – he had swapped the presidential suite for a room on the thirteenth floor with Emily. But, other than the view, everything else in his life had improved considerably in the last month. They were closer than ever to cracking House's systems. And besides Emily's technical progress, she spent most of her nights at the Tops now. He wasn't sure he was capable of the emotion people referred to as love, but this was the closest he had ever felt.

 _Benny, you're hungry for power. You think this is going to be enough, but it won't be. You won't be full until you're where I am now. That hunger for power – it's gonna kill you some day soon._

Even _that_ was happening less often now. He took another drag from his cigarette, letting the nicotine sharpen his focus.

He shook his head and walked back to check in on Emily. With so much to be thankful for these days, he could pass on some of the solemn brooding. It was late, but Emily would still be working. As he approached the massive gash in the wall of his room leading to the makeshift securitron workshop, he was struck by an unusual silence. Usually he could hear the sounds of toiling – the whirl of an electric drill, the clanging of a hammer, even some occasional banter with Yes Man. But there was nothing. He froze.

Sliding his hand down to his waistband, he gripped Maria and crept toward the workshop. Peering into the hole in the wall, the room looked normal: tattered walls, exposed wiring, and dim lighting. Ducking his head in the low entryway, he stepped through the rough opening linking his suite with the workshop. Yes Man stood in the center of the room, his omnipresent grin glued to his screen. Emily was sitting on a chair, her head buried in her hands.

"Woah, what's wrong baby?" he said, loosening his grip on Maria walking over to her. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she shrugged it off.

"Get the fuck off of me," she whimpered.

"Emily, what's going on?"

She looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot and her face wet from tears. "How do you know House is not going to bust in here and shoot us up?"

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"How do you know he didn't catch you on screen when you captured him?" she said, jerking her thumb at Yes Man.

"Oh baby," Benny said, smiling reassuringly, "You don't need to worry about that. Me and the boys were _real_ careful about it."

"You're a monster," Emily whispered, her chin quivering, "Yes Man, play files related to open investigation 828."

"Yes ma'am," Yes Man shouted cheerfully, "Investigation 828 is an open investigation into the destruction and disappearance of Securitron 1639. Securitron 1639 was flagged down by a small boy to report that a gang had kidnapped his mother and thrown her in a dumpster. The boy claimed that the kidnapping was perpetrated by a group of Omertas. When Securitron 1639 arrived on the scene, it investigated the dumpster, but upon opening said dumpster, the unit was hit with a blast of electromagnetic energy, immediately disabling the unit but with limited physical damage. Securitron 1639's feed did not reveal any suspects other than the boy."

"Immediately upon Securitron 1639's destruction, six units were deployed to his area with a response time of 4 minutes, thirty-two seconds. Securitron 1639 was no longer on the scene, nor were any other living witnesses. The boy was found deceased next to the dumpster. The cause of death was two 9mm rounds fired into the skull. An unidentified woman, presumably the boy's mother, was in the dumpster investigated by Securitron 1639. She was also deceased, and her cause of death was also two 9mm rounds fired into the skull. The response team also found a makeshift remote trigger rig in the dumpster that was apparently used to set off the pulse grenades that destroyed Securitron 1639."

"At this time, House has no leads. Although the boy indicated that the attackers were Omertas, there is no evidence to support this theory. While there are occasional assaults on securitrons within the city, this job was clearly undertaken by professionals, but it is unclear what the motivation for the attack was. Given the missing unit's ability to sync with House's network and the sophistication of the attackers, House has marked this investigation priority beta, below only House's personal files."

Benny shook his head. "Look, baby, you gotta let me explain. I never –"

"Yes Man, who is Securitron 1639?" Emily whispered, looking at her feet.

"Although only known on my local files, _I_ am Securitron 1639," the machine answered in a joyful tone.

Benny stared at Emily wordlessly. She refused to make eye contact, still staring at the ground. Tears streamed down her face, creating a foggy tint on her glasses.

"Look, Emily –"

She finally looked at Benny, her glare icy. "You are a fucking monster!" she screamed.

"I did what I had to do. You're going to get access to House's medical research. I don't want to get all utilitarian on you, but this was a sacrifice that had to be made."

"You actually fucking believe this, don't you?" Emily said, "The people of the Mojave are not just some pawns in your little game, Benny."

"The ends justify the means," Benny sighed.

"You consider yourself a student of history. Do you not know how many people have used that exact logic to do terrible things? Fuck you, Benny. After I get access to House's medical data, I am done with you. Forever."

Benny's face turned ghostly pale. "Emily, I didn't want to hurt them, but I had to. If me or my Chairmen popped up on any securitron's video feed, we would have lost _everything._ I had to use a decoy, and a soft target was the safest bet. I was just doing what made sense, and I was doing it for us, dig?"

"It was just a little boy and his mother trying to enjoy a vacation," Emily sobbed, "I can't love a – a savage like you."

Benny was silent for a moment. "If you have access to the beta level, then you must have access to House's security projects, right?"

Emily said nothing.

"Yes Man, can you access House's security projects?"

"Yeah, do you want to hear about them?" the securitron responded excitedly.

Benny ignored Yes Man, pointing at Emily. "Get the fuck out of here if you're done with me."

"We have a deal. I will leave once I have the medical data."

"Fuck that," Benny said, pulling his suit jacket back to reveal Maria's grip from the top of his waistband.

"Oh you're gonna' kill me too now?" Emily shrieked, "Like you did that mother and that -" She put her hand to her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to hold back a sob.

"Guards!" Benny yelled.

Four men walked in wearing dark suits, white shirts, and red ties. One of the suited men, with sandy hair and a submachine gun slung over his shoulder, nodded to Emily, still sobbing on her chair. "You got a problem here, boss?"

"Get her the fuck out of here," Benny snarled, leaving the room.

"Benny, I was wrong!" Emily yelled as he walked away, "You'll always be a sick, sick person!"


	12. Chapter 12

"Any changes to the agenda?" Benny asked, looking into a spotless mirror as he buttoned the arms of his crisp white shirt.

"Nope, he's dispatched the couriers!" Yes Man responded cheerfully.

"And the special one is still on route?" Benny said, carefully wrapping a black tie around his neck.

"Yes, chatter from House's network confirmed that courier six has just been dispatched from Primm!"

Benny straightened the tie and slipped on a checkered jacket. He buttoned the top button, slicked his hair back, and nodded approvingly at the mirror. "Do we know anything about this poor son of a bitch yet or still radio silence?"

"Nothing new to report."

"Well, Yes Man, I guess I'll find out for myself soon enough." He turned to the securitron. "And you're sure you'll be able to do your part?"

"Oh yes," the robot gleefully replied, a slight crackle on his screen demarcating the only change in his goofy static smile, "As soon as you recover the Platinum Chip and gain access to the Lucky 38, I'll be able to take control of House's network!"

"And what's your favorite answer?"

"Yes!"

Benny bared his teeth, contorting his face into something between a smile and a snarl. "That's what I like to hear, baby." He tucked Maria into his waistband, the pearl grips sticking out at the top. "Next time you see me, we'll be poised to take control of New Vegas."

"Okay, Benny!" Yes Man shouted enthusiastically.

Benny walked through the dingy workshop. In his crisp suit and tie, he looked out of place among the workbench, exposed wiring, and tools scattered throughout the room. He ducked his head through the rough hole in the wall leading back to his suite at the Tops. He turned into a long hallway. There was a slight commotion near the elevator.

"Boss, we gotta' talk." Near the elevator, Benny could see Swank trying to push past two of his suite guards blocking the hallway.

"It can wait, Swank," Benny said, waving his had dismissively, "I actually have somewhere to be tonight. You just watch the casino for me, OK?"

Swank turned sideways and slid past the two guards. One quickly drew a pistol and the other grabbed Swank's arm. "No, it's alright," Benny said quickly, "He'll only be a second. You boys head up to the roof. I'll join you there."

The pair reluctantly walked into the elevator.

As the doors slid closed, Swank turned to Benny. "Look, Benny, I need you to key me back in. We haven't talked in weeks. Your guards won't let me or anyone else near you. I can help you dig yourself out if you're in some kind of a hole."

Benny glanced at his watch. "Look, what makes you think I have any trouble?"

"I saw your goons dragging Emily out of the casino last week. She was screaming something about how you betrayed her, how you were going to get us all killed," Swank said, shaking his head, "I don't know what you did with Tommy, but he hasn't been the same since. He has trouble sleeping now. Look, I get that you're making moves, but I'm worried about you, Benny. I need you to trust me. I've always been there for you."

"You're worried about me," Benny snorted, "Look, Swank, I'm really in a hurry, and you've got nothin' to worry about, dig?" He sidestepped Swank, pressing the up button on the elevator.

"What are you up to, then? If I don't have anything to worry about, then it must not be that big of a deal."

The elevator door slid open with a loud ding. Benny stepped inside. "Just manage the fuckin' casino, Swank." He winked, and the doors slid shut.

Benny braced as the vertibird's rotors fired up, sending his jacket billowing up into the air.

"She's ready when you are, boss!" a Chairman yelled from the cockpit.

Benny nodded and looked out over the city. From the roof of the Tops, he could see the inky darkness of the desert in the distance through the tinge of luminescence wafting up from the sea of blues, pinks, greens, and yellows below. His eyes immediately settled on the Lucky 38, the only structure that jutted out from the city into his field of view.

"You comin' boss?" the Chairman yelled.

Benny glanced down one last time, instinctively squinting from the sea of lights. He turned, jogged toward the vertibird, and jumped in the open hatch. He could see clear through to the other side. The hull was hollowed in the middle for easy drop-off and pickup like some of the retrofitted NCR birds.

"Hold on to something!" he heard a staticky voice yell from the front of the vehicle.

He grabbed onto a piece of canvas hanging overhead as the rotors whirred and the ship lurched upward. His stomach did somersaults, and he gripped the canvas tighter, his knuckles turning white.

Flying was the fastest way to get around the Mojave, but he hated it. As a schemer who meticulously planned and took pains to leave nothing to chance, the idea of putting his life in someone else's hands was deeply uncomfortable.

"Boss, can you hit the switch for me?" the crackly voice of the Chairman pilot filled the open cabin over the roaring wind.

Holding tight to the canvas, Benny swung around to the other side of the cabin. He opened a small glass panel and flipped a red switch.

The NCR kept a small battery of anti-aircraft guns stationed just outside the city to stop vertibirds from coming in and out without authorization—one of the many conditions House imposed on the Republic as a condition of their meager presence on the Strip. Benny called in a favor and had a stock NCR safe passage broadcast preinstalled on the ship's transmitter. It would get him out of the city without any questions.

The vertibird cleared the thin wall separating House's little kingdom from the rest of the rabble, and the true vastness of the Mojave set in. The Strip cast an unnerving glow on the thick encampment of squatters just outside the city. As they got further away, the dark blue landscape was overtaken by blackness, and the precarious tin squatter structures were replaced by an endless expanse of sand.

Peering out over the desert, Benny jerked his head back in quickly as the sound of metal pinging against metal broke the monotony of the vertibird's whir. Stealing a look down below, Benny could make out a gaggle of figures surrounding a burning barrel. They wore crude horned helmets and fired wildly into the air.

"Don't worry boss. Just some dumbass Fiends who think they can shoot a bird out of the sky with a couple 9mm rounds," Benny's pilot reassured him over the ship's intercom.

As the city and the Fiends slowly faded in the distance, the rest of the flight was uneventful, if bumpy. Benny managed to doze off for a few minutes, but soon after, the crackly voice from the cockpit returned.

"We're going in for the pickup. Should just be a moment if they're here."

Benny peered out of the vertibird. As the Strip receded into little more than a brilliant speck on the horizion, a massive green structure in the distance broke the monotony of sand. It was in the shape of a giant lizard, not too dissimilar from the vicious geckos that roamed the Mojave. Benny recognized the edifice – they were a few miles out of Novac, one of the tiny communities surrounding the Vegas metropolis.

The pilot brought them down slow. No point rushing through the descent and taking unnecessary risks after going through so much trouble. Even with his eyes adjusted to the dark, Benny could hardly make out anything.

As they touched down and the vertibird quieted down, Benny heard a rustling in his periphery. He spun around, whipping Maria from his waistband. A cadre of men emerged from some nearby bushes. Benny quickly returned his pistol and stepped off the ship. He smiled and opened his arms.

"Chance! Jessup! McMurphy!" Benny beamed. "Long time, no see! You'll have to give Papa Khan my regards when we're through."

The trio, wearing simple black vests, covered their eyes as the vertibird ripped sand from the ground.

A massive man with long blonde hair, not unlike Bingo, grunted over the vertibird's rotors. "Where're our caps?"

Benny smirked. A decade ago, three Khans demanding money from you in the middle of the desert would've been a death sentence or worse. Now, it was more akin to begging. "You'll get paid when we're through, Chance. Don't you worry about that."

"Fine," Chance growled in response.

They boarded the vertibird, and the hunk of metal defied gravity for the last leg of the trip.

"He wouldn't want your regards," one of the Khans said from beneath a handle bar mustache, as the bird soared through the clear Mojave night—if Benny recalled correctly, this one was McMurphy.

"What?"

"You told us to give Papa Khan your regards. He still thinks you were wrong to kill Bingo and give up your nomadic lifestyle. Thinks the city life has made the Boot Riders soft. He wouldn't want your regards."

Benny shook his head and looked out over the desert. "I don't really give a shit."

The rest of the flight was silent until Benny's pilot crackled over the intercom. "We're nearing the courier's route. Keep your eyes peeled."

The group peered into the darkness, looking for movement. Everything was silent, aside from the rhythmic drone of the vertibird's propellers.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching, a single gunshot cut through the night like a Legion machete through a green NCR trooper. Benny's head whipped around to the other side of the vertibird. Chance hung precariously over the side, one hand on the mesh netting in the interior and the other holding a pistol. He looked down the sights and let off another round.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Benny hissed.

"I see the little bastard you hired us to kill," Chance yelled back, gesturing with his pistol. Sure enough, Benny could see a lone figure running through the desert.

"You idiot," Benny snarled, "If you damage his cargo, I'll kill _you_." Benny banged against the cabin wall separating them from the pilot. "Bring us down before he gets away!"

The contents of Benny's stomach threatened to make an appearance as the ship entered a steep dive. Benny fumbled through his jacket pocket, searching for a cigarette. Procuring one, he stuck it in his mouth. There was no way he'd be able to light it, but simply having it on his lips would calm him down for the descent.

When the vertibird finally reached the ground, Benny and the Khans jumped out. "Which way did he go?" Benny said, jabbing his finger against Chance's chest, "You're the one who sent him scurrying away."

"Hey, chill the fuck out man. He went that way," Chance said pointing to a structure at the top of a small hill.

"Move!" Benny yelled.

They scrambled up the hill, their footsteps silently leaving small depressions in the sand. The faintest hint of a breeze left Benny shivering despite the exertion. The Khans, despite wearing cutoff-sleeve vests, didn't seem to be phased. Probably too hyped up on chems to feel much, knowing their crowd.

As they reached the top of the hill, McMurphy pointed at the structure. "What the hell is this?"

It was a large, nondescript sheet metal building. "I think it's an old warehouse or somethin'," Benny said, "Poor bastard's probably holed up in there. Jessup, McMurphy, sneak around the back. Chance and I will wait a minute and charge the front. You get him if he tries to sneak out."

The two Khans slinked wordlessly around the building.

As they waited, Benny turned to Chance. "I didn't leave the Strip to come to some shitty little warehouse in the middle of nowhere to have some wasteland junkie fuck this up. You stick to the script. Any more of that bullshit you pulled earlier, and I'll handle this job with one less Khan, ya dig?"

Chance snarled. "If I were a little man in a fancy suit at 'some little shitty warehouse in the middle of nowhere,' I would be a lot more careful around someone like me."

Benny shrugged. "Seems like a lot to go through and not get paid. Let's get this fucker, so we can get out of here without killing each other."

Chance nodded, and Benny pulled Maria from his waistband and crept toward the house. He crouched as he walked, trying to melt into the darkness. It had been years since he was a Boot Rider scout, but stealth was a skill that didn't die easily.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Chance lumbering forward, a jagged combat knife in hand. Benny rolled his eyes. If they managed to get the drop on _anyone_ with this idiot, he'd eat a radroach.

The front of the building had a simple door, nothing more than a slab of tin on a pair of rusty hinges. The words 'KEEP OUT' were graffitied across the front in dark red paint. Benny slowly pulled the door open just a crack, cringing at every high-pitched creak emanating from the hinges.

The smell of moist earth and a hint of rotting flesh hit Benny immediately. Lacking a proper floor, the warehouse was little more than a metal shell enclosing a piece of the Mojave. While the interior lacked lighting, the patchwork of holes in the walls of the building let in the dull light from the distant Strip, creating small trails of luminescence in the blue-black vacuum of the structure.

The inside was one giant room, covered in dilapidated equipment of some kind. On his right, he could see there was an upper floor that extended half the length of the building.

"Get in there, you fuckin' coward," Chance bellowed, yanking the door fully open and brushing past Benny. With a click, a cone of dull yellow light extended from a flashlight in the Khan's hand.

What Benny had previously thought was a large piece of machinery was instead a pink and gray mass of flesh. It began to writhe, and a chorus of guttural growling filled the room. With a jerking movement, a head whipped around, and Benny could see light reflecting off unnaturally yellow eyes.

"Ferals!" Benny yelled, leveling Maria at the mass of ghouls and squeezing the trigger.

In a whir or roars and high-pitched screeches, the huddling feral ghouls broke apart and began to charge.

"Come on, you pieces of shit!" Chance yelled, burying his combat knife into the skull of nearest ghoul, sending it crumpling to the ground.

Benny had the urge to sigh—so much for the element of surprise—but the adrenaline coursing through his veins prevented him from taking a moment to condescend the barbarian. Most of the creatures were charging Chance, probably due to his manic laughter. For his part, he was a blur, stabbing and slashing with inhuman, likely jet-induced, speed as the ghouls flung themselves at him. Benny crept deeper into the building, staying to the walls, trying to keep a low profile, in the maelstrom of violence.

He heard a rustle, followed by a low growl and turned just in time to be hit head-on by one of the monsters, the shock sending Maria flying through the air. The air was expulsed from his chest, causing him to gasp as he tumbled to the ground. As Benny fell, the feral ghoul jumped on top of him, pinning him down despite being little more than a collection of ragged skin and bones. Its heavy, rad-filled breath left Benny's face sickeningly moist and tingly. The stench hit him nearly as hard as the tackle as the ghoul screamed a single, thick guttural syllable.

Benny wildly threw his hands forward, finding purchase on the ghoul's chest. He pressed hard, as the feral's jaw snapped open and closed like a dog, threatening to clamp down on Benny's face. As it inched closer to his face, panic began to set in. Straining against the mutated horror, he glanced to his side, seeing Maria's gold frame in the gloomy lighting.

As the tendons in his arms threatened to fail, Benny let them go limp and jerked his head to the side. The ghoul's maw lurched forward. Benny could feel a rush of air as the monster's face slammed into the dirt floor. As the ghoul's arms loosened their grip momentarily, Benny rolled and grabbed his pistol. He turned and squeezed three shots. Two went wild, but one found its target, creating a thin tunnel from the left side of the ghoul's skull to the right.

As the surge of wild exertion ended, Benny suddenly registered a strange noise: silence. What had a moment ago been a wild flurry of gunshots, eerie shrieks, and Chance's war cries was now an empty void of hush.

Benny quickly replaced the magazine in his pistol and crouched low again, trying to stay hidden while he figured out his bearings.

"None of that," an unfamiliar voice called out, "Come over here where I can see you."

Peering in the direction of the voice, Benny could see Chance and the distinct outline of a 9mm pistol pressed against the Khan's temple by someone standing behind him.

"That's right, get over here, or your friend's brain is going to give this shithole a new paintjob."

Benny slowly sauntered forward. He couldn't identify the source of the voice. Behind Chance's massive frame was simply a lone hand with a pistol.

"Now that's far enough," the voice commanded, "Drop your gun or I'll shoot."

"If the other guy's got a gun, I prefer to keep mine while I negotiate," Benny replied, feigning confidence.

"There isn't going to be a negotiation. I've got the drop on you jackasses. Now drop your gun, and tell me who you're working for."

"How tall are you?" Benny asked.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Your height, kid. You tell me your height, and I'll put the gun down."

The voice let out an exasperated sigh. "I don't know. Maybe five foot ten."

Benny looked at Chance. He had to be well over six feet tall. In a single swift motion, he raised Maria and let out two shots in quick succession. As Chance crumpled from the point blank head shots, Benny charged forward. The figure stumbled backwards from the weight of the Khan slumping against it, and Benny dashed forward madly. He raised his pistol high in the air and brought it down, against the skull of his would-be assailant, resulting in a satisfying crunch. The figure unwillingly joined Chance on the ground.

At that moment, Jessup and McMurphy barged through the front door. Benny stood in the center of the room, looking down on Chance and the unfortunate courier from the Mojave Express. He was surrounded by an expanse of feral ghouls in various stages of disfigurement.

"Boss, we couldn't find a back entrance! We got hear as soon as we heard things starting to heat up. What the hell happened?" Jessup spouted off.

Benny ignored them.

In the low light, he couldn't make out the courier's features, but, even after falling into unconsciousness, he could see its hand wrapped tightly around something. Benny knelt down and pried the fingers apart. Inside them was a small, cylindrical package.

Benny ripped it open. There it was. A small, gleaming poker chip. The Platinum Chip.

It had already caused a death tonight and would, no doubt, lead to countless more.

As the Khans finished digging a shallow grave, they began to nag Benny yet again.

"You got what you were after, so pay up."

Benny sighed. "You're cryin' in the rain pally." He turned as he saw the courier stirring, straining against the rope binding its hands. Eager to change the subject, he took a drag from his cigarette and gestured toward the figure. "Guess who's wakin' up over here."

Benny took one last drag and threw the cigarette on the ground, stamping it out. "Time to cash out."

He walked over to the poor bastard. Even with the light of a full moon and the ever-present glow radiating from the strip, he couldn't make out the courier's features.

"Will you get it over with?" McMurphy asked, clearly growing exasperated.

Benny held up a single finger. In his moment of triumph, he wasn't going to be rushed by some two-bit mercenary. "Maybe Khans kill people without lookin' 'em in the face. But I ain't a fink," he sneered, glancing back at the tribal, "Dig?"

Benny pulled the Platinum Chip from inside his jacket. He held it up in the pale moonlight, relishing the victory bringing him one step closer to the king of New Vegas.

He looked at the courier, bound and helpless before him. He almost felt sorry for the wastelander. Just out there doing a job, no idea that he was just a pawn in the highest stakes game in the Mojave.

"You've made your last delivery, kid," Benny said sympathetically, nonetheless returning the chip to its place in his jacket, replacing it with Maria. Now just wasn't the time to go soft.

"Sorry you got twisted up in this thing. From where you're kneeling, it must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck."

Benny raised Maria and pointed it at the courier's head.

"Truth is, the game was rigged from the start."

 **Hi everyone, I hope you enjoyed the prequel. If you've read through all of Benny's journey, I would really appreciate any feedback. This is the first fan fic I've written, and I'd appreciate any comments you may have, good or bad.**

 **Additionally, I would love to write more in the future. I particularly like the idea of something like this project, exploring a Fallout character in a context that you don't necessarily see in the game. If you have any ideas you'd like to see, let me know!**


End file.
